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65 West Fourth Str 
1868. 






75 2.311 

M 3 



Entered according to Act of Congress, by 

Mrs. MAKY K. MEAD, 

In the year 1867, in the Clerk's Office for the District of 
Louisiana. 






TO 

Fi^ends of the deceased Jlzcth 

THE 

/< y o llowi f </ EFJ / u § ion $ 

HIS 

Thoughtful h is 

All 

llrsprctfulln DrMratcb. 



PREFACE. 



H^HESE articles emanated from the mind of their 
lii author during the season when war was 

sweeping with desolating blast over the erewhile pros- 
perous fields and cities of the Sunny South. The 
attendant prostration of commercial and financial af- 
fairs, left much unoccupied time on the hands of busi- 
ness men; and this unavoidable leisure was by him 
made subservient to the intellectual benefit of himself 
and others through the practice of literary pursuits. 
His purpose was, to enlarge on this theme until all 
that is attractive or notable about New Orleans should 
lithfully delineated. But this intention was 
frustrated by the inevitable summons of Death, and 
his earthly labors ceased, leaving this portion of his 
work unfinished. Nevertheless, many prominent mat- 
ters of interest, pertaining to his adopted city, are herein 
depicted with an accuracy and a delicacy of imagery 
truly refreshing in this age of affectation, when a false 
and exaggerated style in too many instances mars the 
pure beauty of what it is intended to portray. The 
perusal of the "Memory Types' 1 will afford peculiar 
gratification alike to residents of the city and its en- 
virons, and to strangers abroad, to whom they will 
convey correct ideas of many of its most interesting 
and characteristic features. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 



Memory Types of New Orleans, - 1 3 

To the Mississippi, ------- 59 

Spring Time, 62 

The Crushed Violet, ------- 68 

Glimpses of Heaven, ------ 68 

The Prism and tin Sun /num. - - - -71 

The American Indian, ----- 71 

" /// the Deep Forest" ------ 7.; 

The Old Gnarled Oak, ----- 

Lines on Seeing a Photograph of Alexander 

Campbell, -------- 8i 

./ Rainy Day in Town, ------ 84 

The Sea Galls, -------- 86 

" Growing Richer/' - 89 

Ola- Wooden Che - 92 

Tlie Mother's Dream. ...... 94 

Our Soldiers' Graves, - 97 

Invocation to Peace, 99 

Silent Sorrows, ------- 101 

Boyhood Sports, 103 

"Dipping in the Spring/' 106 

9 



Contents. 

PAGE 

My Gentle Monitor, 109 

" God watches over Me/' - - - - - 112 

After the Battle, - - - - - - - us 

Watching o'er the Bead, in 

The Two Friends, - - - - - - - 121 

Our Family Physician, - - - - - -124 

The Orphan's Lament, 12 7 

" Cheer Up, Neighbor," - 130 

My Singing Bird, - - 133 

The Crazed Woman, -136 

Sunset Dreams, ------- 138 

The Stars, 142 

Lillie Lee, 144 

The Soldier's Wife, - - 1*6 

The Wounded at Home, 147 

Death, - - 151 

The Lron Rule, ------- 155 

Deacon Worldly, - - - . - - - - X58 

Our Candidate, - i 61 

To , 163 

The Mocking Bird, ------ 166 



10 



ftlcmon) (Types of |1 eto (Dr leans. 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 




VERY city has its visiting spots — or, what 
may be termed its specialties— to which, as 
y% curiosities, strangers resort on coming to it 

for the tirst time. These spots, together with the in- 
cidents connected with them, in a measure contribute 
to make up the history of the place: and, fco a certain 
extent, also mark the character and t;i>t<- <>t its present 
as well as its past inhabitants. To he sure, this is not 
always true of the present population. It may. or it 
may not be. The living often, out of respect and ven- 
eration for the dead, tolerate customs and leave undis- 
turbed old relics of the past, for which they have in 
heart no especial liking. Besides, it i- not always 
within their power, nor may it be convenient, for them 
to remove them. We know this to be the case with 
many of the quaint old buildings left standing in our 
midst as memories of the past century. They are 
c 13 



Leaves of Thought. 



suffered to remain, not because their odd appearance 
gives particular pleasure to their owners, nor that 
they are, on that account, in any wise more profitable ; 
but either because their proprietors are too poor, or 
the property too much depreciated in value, to bear 
the expense of alteration ; or else because, in conse- 
quence of the death of the original owner, the title can 
not be perfected during the minority of the younger 
heirs. These, and other causes equally potent, may 
operate to postpone their removal. The utilizing 
spirit of the age, however, has carried away many of 
these old monuments ; while, in their stead, have risen 
up modern and more pretentious edifices, which con- 
trast as strangely with those they succeeded, as do the 
present proprietors or occupants with the staid fore- 
fathers of the old regime. The march of the world is 
onward ; not to improvement merely, but also to 
extravagance. The economic substantiality that pre- 
vailed in the erection of tenements some fifty or a 
hundred years ago, has given place to a much more 
showy, but far less durable, style of structure. The 
architecture, too, has been greatly changed; though, in 
all respects, we think the change has not been for the 
better. True, the flat, smooth slate roof of the present 
day is preferable to the cumbrous, gutter-like tiles of 
the past; so are the jaunty doors and inside blinds that 

u 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 

secure the inhabitants of our modern mansions much 
more elegant and convenient than the heavy, prison- 
barred doors and window shutters that stand as monu- 
ments of the olden times. But the wide halls and 
spacious corridors that serve as entrances to some of 
the venerable old castles of the luxurious Creole, are 
much more to our liking, after all, than the narrow, 
restricted openings to the houses of later date; and 
the solidity of masonry thai obtains in the one, while 
being more permanent, gives greater security against 
the dampness always prevalent in this climate. Be- 
side-, then* is about these old dwellings an aspect of 
independence and comfort, quite unrestrained by the 
ephemera] taste of the age we live in. The inmates 
appear to enjoy life. too. As we look in through some 
of these open corridors or gateway.-, we frequently 
tasty green shrubbery and choice plants of various 
kinds adorning the yard ; perchance the proud, broad- 
leaved, but not always yielding, banana tree: while 
we never mi ing the brick pavement therein 

nicely cleansed and reddened over with paint pro- 
duced from its own dust — an observance almost pecu- 
liar to the Creole, and sustained, apparently, with a 
religious enthusiasm. In days gone by, perhaps more 
than at present, we would also see collected around or 
scampering joyfully and carelessly about these places. 

15 



Leaves of Thought. 



groups of little negroes of all ages, sizes, and com- 
plexions, whose bandy legs and humorous contortions 
of countenance and body could not otherwise than 
.amuse the stranger who happened to pass that way. 
Their immediate wants having been provided for, and 
.accustomed by this condition to have no yearnings for 
the morrow, these little larks were among the happiest 
and most careless of mortals. Occasionally peeping 
out from between the half-closed, ponderous window 
shutters, the outside pedestrians would, at times, catch 
& glimpse, too, of the bright, flashing, dark eyes of the 
timid, yet beautiful young Creole miss, whose conscious 
charms scarcely admit of being questioned, but whose 
timidity precludes, to the disinterested stranger, any- 
thing more than a momentary glance. 

A day's ramble through the portion of our city now 
known as the Second and Third Districts, but which, 
at the time we speak of, was recognized as the First 
;and Third Municipalities, would afford the new comer, 
oven at this late day, much that would interest him, as 
well as much that he might speculate upon with profit. 
He would there still find standing many of the mem- 
ories of old -departed joys ;" and, as he wound his 
labyrinthi an way through several streets, dedicated to 
saints, martyrs, distinguished characters, virtues, affec- 
tions, and institutions of other days, many of which 

16 



.Memory Types of New Orleans? 



preserve their names in the French idiom, and observed 
the population that exist there in the low, one-story, 
heavy tile-roofed houses or cabins that abound every- 
where in these localities, he would be very apt in his 
wanderings to imagine himself transported to some 
European city; especially as his unprepared ear was 
saluted, as it would most certainly be, with a conglom- 
erate discord of dialects wholly differing, perhaps, from 
his own. He would find, in those hives of humanity, a 
strange admixture of the several nations of the earth ; 
from the most enlightened to the semi-barbarous, all 
intent upon the place of living nearest suited to their 
Own tastes and conditions; and yet. in the aggregate. 
constituting, to a degree, a homogeneous and happy 
people. By the side of the aristocratic Creole mansion 
he would occasionally find the humble cabaret, or a 
depot for the sale of Bois and Gharban, while here and 
there, it may be in rows of one-story cottages, he would 
he entertained with a revised edition of the family of 
men and animals such as are supposed to have gone 
into Noah's ark. only with this difference, perhaps, 
there would be a larger sprinkling of the human in 
this case, possessing a more distinguishable, yet con- 
fused, variety of countenance and speech. Still, there 
would be found much that could not fail to please him. 
The extremely clean appearance of the inside apart- 

17 



Leaves of Thought. 



ments of many, even the smallest and least-pretending 
of these old-fashioned domicils, together with the taste- 
fully-arranged curtains that hang at both windows and 
doorway ; the well-to-do looking furniture that appears 
therein, and the negligent ease and quiet, contented 
faces of the pretty loungers that are seen there on a 
hot summer's day ; all contribute to make up a picture 
of domestic life that, to a wayfaring outsider, would be 
anything but distasteful. Their floors, when not car- 
peted or covered with matting, are always nicely 
scrubbed, and have a peculiar yellowish cast or tinge, 
imparted to them by the free use of either brickdust or 
curcuma. The doorsteps and banquettes in front are 
treated in the same manner. Indeed, this habit of 
cleanliness, sanctified as it invariably is with brick- 
dust, is a dominant virtue with nearly all the dwellers 
in this section, and it is among the first things that 
attracts the attention of the stranger. A partial hin- 
drance, however, to one's admiration of the within, is 
found without in the wretchedly, neglected condition - 
of some of the streets, and the too often filthy state of 
the gutters, which are generally poorly graded, and 
are instinct with the dull, musical croakings of their 
patron frog. 

The stores, which are neither numerous nor elegant, 
are seldom closed on Sundays. Their display of goods 

18 



Memory Types of New Orleans, 

and material is not such as would entice the eye of 
the experienced shopper, though doubtless adequate to 
supply the wants of the immediate neighborhood. 
Yet one occasionally stumbles upon a store even there, 
where the richest and choicest manufactures of the 
Parisian market may be had. And as for wines, 
French comestibles of all kinds, and nicknacks gener- 
ally, no shopkeeper outside of Bordeaux or Marseilles 
can excel them. From this particular section of our 
city have emanated, too, the major portion of all the 
"marchands," or Btreet merchants, who are found at 
all hours peddling about the city every conceivable 
notion that nature produces or human ingenuity can 
invent, to meet the want- or gratify the appetites and 
tastes of our citizens. Some of these, especially the 
flower merchants, are institutions of this city; and 
they claim, as they very generally receive, some atten- 
tion of the stranger. The South is a garden of flowers, 
and nowhere, that we know of, this side of Paris, is the 
custom of selling flowers so well maintained as here; 
and surely, nowhere can a richer or more profuse 
variety be had so cheap. In our earlier days, these 
flower merchants were almost exclusively of the slave 
population ; and it was interesting to see them, of 
evenings especially, seated at the corners of the prin- 
cipal streets and around the doors of our hotels and 

19 



Leaves of Thought. 



places of amusement, behind baskets of tempting, 
choice flowers, all neatly banded together and taste- 
fully assorted, doubtless by the delicate hands of their 
fair young mistresses. There was a remarkable con- 
trast, too, that made it none the less pleasing, between 
these beautiful bright flowers so white and so pure, 
and the coal-black, fat, shining, happy faces of the 
lusty "marchands." But times are changed. Oar 
original flower merchants, like their flowers, have 
passed away, or they have taken to other pursuits. 
We do not now see them as we did then. Their 
places are supplied, in a manner, by oTd and young 
disciples of Teutonic origin ; but their faces are 
new and strange to us, and their flowers neither 
smell so fragrant nor look as bright and cheerful as 
they used to. 

Turning from these, however, let us glance a moment 
at the quaint, old-style houses of worship one finds 
frowning about in this locality, the outside appearance 
of which reminds the observer of petrified relics of at 
least two centuries ago. Their grandeur is obsolete ; 
at least, it is not of our time. It came of other days, 
and it is venerated on that account. On entering these 
edifices, one exists in the past ; his mind is carried far 
beyond the reach of the present, and his soul or spirit. 
if such he has, communes with the long departed. 



Memory Types of Mew Orleans. 

The solemn stillness that pervades their cold atmos- 
phere is deepened even by the crude pictures and im- 
ages that line the walls ; while the sombre-shaded light 
that is permitted to steal into these buildings through 
the heavy, stained-glass windows, throws a depressive 
gloom over the sensibilities, and ^carries the mind, in 
funeral -like meditations, to the unfolded mysteries of 
another world. Here arc assembled the rich and the 
poor, the high and the low. the master and the servant, 
all on one common level. None appear to feel their 
superiority : all are alike dependent en the one Benefi- 
cent Hand that supplies their common wants, and 
before whom they prostrate themselves in apparent 
sincerity of heart, to supplicate his much-needed favor 
and protection. Yet there is distinguishable an amount 
of seeming irreverence in the way that many of them 
enter and depart from these sanctuaries. But we must 
leave them, and pass on to other scenes. There are 
other spots contiguous, whereon are written, in the 
decaying marks of time, interesting memoranda of the 
history of our novel, Americanized-French city. 



21 



Leaves of Thought. 




ii. 

iHEEE is an unwritten record concerning sev- 
eral of the old buildings that we have passed, 
which would be interesting to give if we were 
permitted to do so. Those loop-holed fronts and stoutly 
iron-barred windows, that denote a period of watch- 
fulness and distrust, when men fortified their dwelling 
places and stood sentry over their own households, 
could tell a strangely-sounding tale to the parlor war- 
riors of the present day. were the vail lifted that long 
has covered their slumbering dead. But we have 
neither the space nor the ability to do so at this time. 
Our intention now is merely to take an outside, pass- 
ing look at them, leaving to others, who are more 
disposed and better fitted than ourselves, to stir the 
remembrances connected with their eventful history. 
We will reverently cherish in memory such as are 
gone, as well as those that remain as monuments of 
their once active owners, who now quietly sleep in the 
several cemeteries of our city. To these last stopping 
places on Life's journey, let the stranger, if he feels 
disposed, in his reflective moments, repair, and he will 



Memory Types of Neiu Orleans. 

there read on the cold, unfeeling marble, the names of 
many, once heroes like himself, who, having acted out 
their parts on "Life's fitful stage,'" have passed away, 
and left to posterity the task of completing the record. 
Peace to their ashes ! Let them undisturbedly repose 
in the narrow beds where their friends have laid them. 
They left much undone; still they did a great deal, for 
which we. their children, are exceedingly ungrateful. 
Thi> is Esplanade Street. <>nc of the former bounda- 
ries of the "old city." a dividing line between what 
were once the First and Third Municipalities. The 
center grass plat, studded with trees, was •• neutral 
ground.'' To the right, a few squares back, is a sim- 
ilar avenue or street, called Rampart, running at right 
angles with this, which also was a dividing line that 
separated the "old city " from its adjacent faubourgs. 
Canal Street, laid off somewhat in the same manner, was 
the remaining boundary, and separated "old town" on 
the First Municipality, from what was afterward known 
as the Second Municipality, but is now called the First 
District. To the left of us. near the river bank, like a 
laborer when his days work is done, stands the old 
United States Mint. It is, at present, holding a holi- 
day, a respite from its labors of former years. Its 
once-substantial, much-used issue of gold and silver 
coin has been supplanted by the lighter, portable, pic- 

23 



Leaves of Thought. 



ture-paper promises of its owner. We shall, therefore, 
leave it to enjoy its nap in the lap of " our uncle," who 
has become rather fretful and petulant of late. On 
this street are still to be seen several respectable look- 
ing old buildings, once the mirthful habitation of rich, 
hospitable French and Spanish noblemen, who, years 
ago, surrendered all their titles, rights, and privileges 
in earthly possessions, to their younger, but less staid 
inheritors. This street, or avenue, as we prefer to call 
it, is well laid out, and pretty throughout its entire 
length. The lining of shade trees along its middle or 
"neutral ground," gives it a pleasing appearance, and 
makes also a delightful sunshade in a summer eve- 
ning's promenade. It has always been a favorite 
resort, if not the pride, of our Creole people. The 
original projectors, however, would be startled we 
think, were they permitted to see the uses now made 
of it by our pleasure-purchasing gentry, who are con- 
stantly being whirled over the disregarded ground in 
the pert, encroaching "city cars" of the last decade; 
yet, their objections would carry little weight among 
a people so progressive as we, and so widely differing 
in manners and tastes from them. We will turn into 
this narrow, Prenchy lane, formerly called Conde, but 
now made a continuation of Chartres Street. Why 
the name was changed — unless it was to make up in 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 

length to Chartres Street what it had lost of its for- 
mer significance — for it was. years ago, the fashionable 
street of our city — is more than we can tell. We 
shall leave this matter to be determined by our 
modernizing legislators. Conde, or, as we must 
now call it, Chartres Street, has always been among 
the most stubborn in resisting the onward disposi- 
tion of the age to improvement. It still glories in a 
portion of its primeval character, and is, at this day, 
the claimant of one of the oldest, if not the oldest relic 
in our midst — the once Ursuline Convent. This build- 
ing, now devoted to church uses, and made the resi- 
dence of some of the priesthood, is said to be nearly a 
century and a half old. It is quite antique, both in 
outer and inner adornments, and will well repay a 
visit from such as are fond of musty imaginings and 
mummy-like faces. The case is old; yet the hearts of 
its present inmates are warm with young blood, and 
the visitor will be courteously received. It has not 
been used as a convent for many years ; another and 
more commodious structure, lower down the river, 
having been erected to serve the purposes for which 
this was built. The antiquarian may smile, perhaps, 
at our calling even this an old building. It is not as 
old, certainly, as many in Europe ; nevertheless, it is 
considered old among us. We are a younger, a newer, 

25 



Leaves of Thought. 



a fresher, and a faster people. We live more rapidly 
here than they do in the Old World ; consequently, we 
wear out houses and customs faster than they do. 
Indeed, a structure of any kind will have been com- 
pleted, served out its intended purpose, and have 
passed away beyond the wants of our progressive, 
telegraphic- working people, before one of the kind 
will have been fairly finished in the older countries. 
Hence, in one way, we call these buildings old. There 
is a decrepitude of age noticeable in most of the houses 
on this street. A walk through it, on a gloomy, rainy 
day especially, throws a pall over one, very similar to 
what we receive when pacing the streets or lanes of 
our burial places. The houses, too, are generally 
squatty ; but, as the acclimated portion of our people 
live out of doors mostly during fair weather, what 
they have of walls and roof is sufficient at least, we 
presume, to hide them in the night time. And, as a 
rule, these are thickly tenanted ; at any rate, we judge 
so by the number of diminutive white faces and "pica- 
ninny niggers" that throng the cobbled sidewalks or 
banquettes, and who seem placed there, like so many 
tenpins in an alley, to be knocked down, or to knock 
each other down. There is scarcely a signboard in the 
English language to be seen on this street — all French 
and German — symptomatic and real. The shop- 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 

keepers and attendants in the several " magasins," 
"cafes," "boulangeries," etc., etc., all appear to be 
engaged; yet there is very little real business going on. 
Alas! the scepter of gain has departed from " old 
town;'' its walls are moldering and crumbling down. 
Its whilom greatness is among the things of the past. 
Like a bereaved widow she sits amidst her ruins, while 
her children arc last joining the ranks of the renowned 
Anglo-Saxon. Here we are at the old 

FBEJfCB MARKET. 

How changed it looks! Always a peculiar feature 
of our city, and the chief providing mart to its inhab- 
itants for the material needed to "repair the wastes of 
nature," and prop the " inner man," this place is shorn 
of a large proportion of the singularity and strength 
that characterized it ten or twenty years ago. It is 
now reduced, not in size, but in the varied extent of its 
trade, and in the numbers that frequented it; and with 
few exceptions, indeed, its occupants or salesmen and 
women are altogether a widely different class from 
such as presided at its "seats of custom " then. Inno- 
vations have gradually stolen in upon its ancient 
methods and manners. War, want, and scarcity, 
together with the sometime resisted, but sequent 
adoption of a paper currency, have wrought their 

27 



Leaves of Thought. 



fearful changes upon its time -honored customs, as 
well as upon the profusion of its products. Instead 
of the invariable "picayune piles" in the vegetable 
domains of this stomach kingdom, and a flourishing 
"la gniappe " always thrown in as a "bon marche," 
we are now treated to lesser "piles" at higher prices, 
and no " la gniappe; " while some of the newer and 
more venturesome hucksters have even risked selling 
by the "wooden measure," as is done in other cities, 
and in backwood places. We meet, too, with fewer 
negro "marchands" of the olden date, who were 
usually acknowledged then to be sharp, but correct 
and honest dealers. Probably they have been ousted 
by the inward flux of the heterogeneous itinerants in 
the coat of many colors, who have migrated hither to 
usurp their places; and whose torturings of the Eng- 
lish language, in the disposition and sale of their 
"eggies," "appleys," and "sweety sugar orangeys," 
are as discordant on the ear as their stale productions 
are often offensive to the olfactories of the neighboring 
bystanders. It is on Sunday morning that we mostly 
notice the change. Time was when the negroes 
flocked here by the hundreds on that day, from the 
surrounding fields and plantations, some on foot, some 
in "oberseer's" wagon or cart, while others would 
paddle their way to it by river, in their small canoes. 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 

all loaded down with a mixed contribution to the gen- 
eral stock, in the shape of pecans, oranges, clumps of 
"tania" root, to be used instead of scrubbing-brushes, 
and brooms home-made from the leaves of the same 
plant sirup and sticks of sugar cane, and a bountiful 
supply of vegetables of their own raising; all of which, 
in a few hours, were converted into bright, shining 
silver picayunes and dimes, to be treasured up or 
expended in ways that made the world seem larger, 
and its paths pleasanter. On that day, also, of all 
others, would be seen the many light-hearted, pleasure- 
seeking visitants from distant homes, wending their 
way. early in the morning, toward this busy scene, to 
get their refreshing cup of chocolate or coffee, and 
feast their hearts, and, perchance, their appetites, too, 
on the gay panorama of life that was there spread 
before them. In the outside round, between the vege- 
table and meat markets, and in the open space imme- 
diately in the rear of this, would the plantation 
negroes mainly assemble ; the older and more design- 
ing ones squatted behind their various stocks in trade, 
like so many monkeys at a dinner party, while the 
younger ones, frisking about in all sorts of ways and 
attitudes in the vacant spaces, presented somewhat the 
appearance, both in color and noisiness, of a flock of 
crows in a harvest patch. In the logomacal war that 

29 



Leaves of Thought. 



ensued here, there was kept up a constant artillery of 
laughter, the reverberating thunder of which reached 
the ears of the entire camp, and left few intervals to 
the grinning faces to settle down into anything like a 
business sternness. As in most conversations of this 
peculiarly-jocund race, their chat had less substance 
than their heartfelt mirth would lead one to suppose. 
To the negro, however, there is a point in all that the 
negro says ; and, whether he catches the drift or not, 
it is his nature to laugh, and laugh he will at every 
absurdity of his fellow. Thus it went: "Hi, you look 
soon, nigger! What you done bring?" "Pshaw! 
go way wid your wormy corn ; white folks do n't want 
dat." "Dis way, massa, dis way; here's first-rate 
pecans, an' a good la gniappe." "Morn in', missus; I 
know'd you buy somethin' o' de old man dis time; 
dem's Creole eggs, ma'am, sure ; mighty scarce down 
our way dis year, for true." "Dis side, ladies, dis side; 
dem's old pullets ober dar — don't compar' wid dese." 
"Hush, nigger! I 'se done sold out;" and so on. 
Interspersed about were also a host of petty white 
traders, having a sample of almost everything that the 
world has ever produced ; and these, in their clamor 
for customers, by their incessant chattering, added to 
the negroes', made up a din to which, in volubility of 
sound, and confusion of tongues, the " Tower of 

30 



Memory Types of Xew Orleans. 

Babel " was only a faint preamble. A short remove 
from these, in a herd by themselves, sat. carelessly 
grouped together, the always-reticent Indians, with 
their everlasting supplies of sassafras, blow guns, and 
cane baskets. They are proverbially indifferent 
traders. They neither entreat customers, nor do they 
appear to care whether they sell or not. They were 
rather spectators, and took no part in the fun, frolic, 
and confosion going on around them. On the con- 
trary, tlie negro is always loquacious ; but on a 
theater like tins, where he feels himself to be one 
of the principal actors, and has, as he conceives, 
an important part to perform, his exuberant soul 

Overleaps its natural boundaries, and he becomes 

an irresistible source of mirth to himself as well 

as to others. ]3ut we miss them all at the present 
time. The rollicking, careless, laugh -provoking 
plantation darkey is seldom seen here now. His 
little patch of ground no longer contributes to sup- 
ply our tables, nor his mirth to cheer us. He has 
laid by " de shobel and de hoe; " or, if he uses these 
implements at all now, it is in other and more distant 
fields. What few of his race are seen here at the 
present day, lack the respectful demeanor, the trust- 
ing countenance, the joyous laugh, and the hearti- 
ness of soul and body that were the main supports 

31 



Leaves of Thought, 



of the ones we knew in our earlier days. Good bye, 
Sambo, good bye. Our roads diverge. We may 
never meet again as we have met in happier days — 
in the aisles of the old French Market. 



32 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 




Ill 



JACKSON SQUARE. 



HIS was formerly our "Place d' Armes." 
Within and around it, daring the sweet 
times of peace, the military heroes of other 
days, dressed out in their showy finery, in the pres- 
ence of a mixed but admiring crowd of white and 
black — men, women, and children — showed how bat- 
tles were fought and how "fields were won." Here, 
too, young urchins, catching the military spirit of 
their fathers, were wont to meet occasionally to test 
their prowess in battle, and contribute what they could 
toward sustaining the name of the place and the mar- 
tial fame of their ancestors. Many a young hero, now 
occupying distinguished posts of honor, as well as 
some who meekly tread the peaceful dales of private 
life, gave first proof of their fitness and capacity 
beneath the huge trees that once shaded the parterres 
of this now beautiful ground. And some of these, 
doubtless, like ourselves, remember with mingled feel- 
ings the changes that have come over the old parade 

33 



Leaves of Thought. 



ground; which, like our early lives, has been turned 
from a state of nature and unadorned loveliness into 
a field for art and fashion to play their stiff pranks 
upon. Within our recollection, this was a simple, 
natural grove ; a green, shady spot where one could 
retire from the noise and bustle of business, and dream 
away the day's care in cheerful anticipations of the 
future. It is now a study for the gardener and the 
florist; and, though the visitant may pleasantly pass 
an hour here at early morn or at evening sundown, it 
is not the refreshing meditative place it was at other 
hours, as it gives little or no protection from the heat 
of a mid-day sun. The name has been changed, too. 
It is now called Jackson Square, in honor of that 
remarkable man to whose memory our citizens erected 
the truly beautiful equestrian statue that stands in its 
center. It is well, perhaps, the name was changed, as 
the pristine glory of the old square departed from it 
many years ago. When the last nine-o'clock gun was 
fired here to summon the slave population to their 
respective abodes, when the woodman's ax severed the 
stately trees that then lined its walks, and when its 
time-honored, ever-watchful old guardian laid down 
his staff and snuffbox to take his last, long sleep of 
death, then vanished the glory, the simplicity, the 
character of our much-frequented "Place d' Amies." 

34 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 



We have happy remembrances of the spot ; of the 
blithesome days when we sat beneath its wild, native 
trees, and took a quiet survey of the ardent couples 
who here unrestrainedly "told their loves," as the 
birds did theirs, on a soft summer day's afternoon. 
We had not then these cold, torturing iron benches to 
recline upon, nor was the open green lawn hedged 
about as it is now, saying, "Thus far shall thou go, but 
no farther." We had our winding pathways, but were 
not saluted at every turn, afi we have been since, with 
despotic little signboards, saucily proclaiming to pro- 
prietary inhabitant- X< touchez pas aux fli UT8;" or, 
as the anglicising artist literally rendered the prohibit- 
ing caution on the same boards : " Touch not to the flow- 
ers." If we threw ourselves carelessly upon the grass, 
or pulled a sprig from an adjacent limb, we had not 
then the tear of iron-barred windows before us, nor the 
dread of the lean hand of the law reaching our pockets. 
No, we came here to take our ease, to throw aside 
restraint, and. perchance, to have a moment's friendly 
chat with the keeper, who always had a pinch of snuff 
and a kind word for everybody, and who, moreover, 
was delighted with young children, especially if they 
spoke his native tongue; and who maintained no 
greater restriction than was necessary for the preser- 
vation of the place, nor than which the human laws 

85 



Leaves of Thought. 






imposed upon him. But the patriarchal father is 
gone ; the trees are gone — at least such as should be 
called trees — while, in their stead, we see hedges, 
flowering plants, and mocking evergreens, cut in all 
the various trigonometrical patterns that science can 
suggest, or which the trees and the gardener are capa- 
ble of; and placed, as mute watchmen, in the corners 
of the square, we have marble statues, poetically rep- 
resenting the year's seasons, but which, as far as prac- 
tical purposes are served, convey about as much 
truthfulness of thought on this subject to the majority 
of visitors who come into this place, as would so many 
Egyptian mummies or exhumed bodies from the caves 
of the Caesars. All this is very modern ; it is all very 
pretty, we dare say ; and, in the eyes of cultivated 
connoisseurs in this age of art, is a decided improve- 
ment; yet, in our rusticity of soul, we prefer the una- 
dorned naturalness and freedom of the past, where we 
could, as children of nature, look upon our mother 
earth's face, and pull at her robes if we chose without 
the dread of punishment. The place, to us, looks stiff 
and uneasy, very much like some of our modern belles, 
decked out in their finery for an evening party or a 
show promenade; while the rows of stylish, prim- 
faced houses on either side appear like nurses placed 
there as guardians to keep our belle square from 

36 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 

Boiling her pretty garments. It is said we are indebted 
for all this to the wealthy proprietors of these side 
mansions, who donated this square to the city on the 
express condition that it should be made a flower gar- 
den, as it is. and be kept so: yet. we think it somewhat 
a pity, on the whole, that such restrictions accompanied 
the munificent gift, or that some of the changes were 
made, as it were more appropriate, though less grand, 
we opine, in a crowded city like ours, to have in so con- 
venient a situation an open, free breathing spot for its 
inhabitants, where the poorer ones especially, amid the 
guardings of nature alone, could romp out the feelings 
which swell every heart confined, to the cage-like 
limits of a commercial town. But this is one of the 
spots created for strangers to visit: and it was judged 
beet to have it dressed in fine robes for the occasion, in 
order, as the Baying is. k; to be fit to receive company," 
though the natural household should be pinched 
thereby. Behind stands, fronting us in archiepiscopal 
dignity, the 

ST. LOUIS CATHEDRAL. 

This building, with the ground on which it stands, 
was likewise an offering, we have been told, of the 
same wealthy lady who presented the above square to 

37 



Leaves of Thought. 



the city; or rather, perhaps we should say, of her 
deceased husband. And we are assured, also, though 
we will not vouch for the truth of the assertion, that 
it was given under certain restraints, viz : that the 
ancient model of the structure should be preserved; 
that the property should always be retained for church 
uses, and that it should not pass to other owners. 
Probably it was in compliance with this agreement that 
some years ago, when this edifice was tottering and 
needed partial rebuilding, in making the necessary 
repairs, but slight and insignificant alterations were 
made in the former model. It has, nevertheless, been 
changed somewhat, perhaps modernized as much as 
the circumstances permitted. The spires have been 
lengthened and smoothed over with dark slate; its en- 
tire front face has been renovated, cleansed, and newly 
stuccoed over in the yellowish-brown style so much in 
vogue here, and which, we presume, either originated 
in, or gave birth to, the often ill-regulated, but always 
faithfully- persevered in, brick-dust system. In the 
forehead was placed, too, at that time, a handsome, 
illuminated clock, the dial plate of which was shat- 
tered recently, in the concussion caused by an explo- 
sion of gunpowder on board a burning boat in the 
vicinity, and has been succeeded by the present one, 
which bears no nearer resemblance to the original, 

38 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 

either in usefulness or beauty, than would a glass eye 
to the natural organ. The interior of the building has 
enough of oddity and grandeur to attract the curious. 
The stranger entering it during service hours, espe- 
cially on one of their great days, will not merely be 
entertained, but will have his heart improved. Very 
likely, the first object to call his attention will be the 
prominent beadle in his red, embroidered coat, sup- 
porting a huge metal staff entirely disproportioned to 
hie size and physical aptitude, and who has a sort of 
omnipresent supervision over the behavior, as well as 

he often has over the heads, of the worsh iping people. 

The inside architectural appearance is grave, not 

grand. The fire! impression may probably be gloomy, 
but the feeling will be Boftened gradually, as one looks 
round at the several paintings in fresco and oil, which 
are seen here. The windows are objectionably small, 
of stained glass of different hues, arranged in cruci- 
form patterns, and are insufficient to light the building 
so as to show it to advantage. 

The side galleries, which seem to be little used, are 
broad and cumbersome, and darken materially the 
space below. The pews are quite ordinary, and not 
very comfortable : but the full-sounding organ, to- 
gether with the singing, which is always good, in a 
great measure enables one to forget the temporary 

39 



Leaves of Thought. 



inconvenience of the seats, or the still worse strait he 
is often reduced to, of standing during the entire ser- 
vice. The cold, marble-paved floor, although not the 
most inviting on a winter's day, is usually well covered 
over by the pewless devotees, who kneel about or sit 
on benches or stools brought with them for the pur- 
pose. We can scarcely tell how this building would 
appear by night if well lighted, as it is rarely used 
then ; never, indeed, except for weddings, or occasions 
of that sort, as the Catholics have no night services, 
unless we excej)t the three nights of 'Tenebrse" at 
the close of the Lent season. Keligious services are 
said and sung, of course, in Latin ; but the preaching 
here is mostly in French. The same apparent equality 
exists among the worshipers as in other congregations 
of like faith, though there is, perhaps, more of the 
aristocratic element here than elsewhere. On either 
side of this building are equally odd structures, which 
we will term the 



TWIN SISTERS. 

These are now used, and, within memory, have 
always been used, for municipal and court purposes. 
They bear the marks of service. On the front of the 
one to our left is a military escutcheon, which grimly 

40 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 



carries one back to the days when fighting was to be 
done, or when men's minds were preparing for it ; yet 
these buildings have played no important part in such 
engagements. In the rear of this one is the State Ar- 
senal. The ground floor serves for public offices of 
different kinds, the corner one on the right being 
reserved as a halting place for public offenders, and 
known to transgressors as the -old calaboose/' Here 
comes and departs, at stated intervals, a line of iron- 
clad omnibuses for the Bpeeial deportation of such 
passengers as, having arrived during the night, are in 
waiting to be introduced to their honors, the several 
magistrates of our city; which coaches received the 
euphonious names of the "Red and Black Marias." hut 
whether in honor of patron saints or sinners, is left 
discretionary with the sympathizing masses. They 
are modern, close, safe-appearing inventions, and tol- 
erably well patronized by the sin-loving, sin-degraded, 
and thereb}' wretched portion of our people. We 
notice but one of them running of late. These build- 
ings have sluggishly served the cause of justice for 
many years. Within the walls of the lower one were 
heard, in da} T s gone by, as eloquent appeals as ever 
went from human lips on behalf of poor, wandering 
humanity. Especially do we recollect the stirring 
words of one whose bones now lie moldering on the 

41 



Leaves of Thought. 



banks of the Mississippi River, but the echo of whose 
eloquence lingers around these halls like the sweet 
sounds of music on the remembering ear. Here 
estates of great magnitude have been portioned out or 
frittered away in the tedious routine of law. Here the 
charged criminal stood waiting his impending fate, 
and conscious, injured innocence, the restoration of 
that virtue, its dearest right, which, like a pearl, had 
nearly been engulfed beneath the slime of malice. 
Here, too, the fiery young aspirant, with unfledged 
honors, anxious for renown, under a weight of learn- 
ing greater than his years, proudly let loose upon an 
assembled court his long pent-up universe of thought. 
How liberally spacious are the vestibules and entrances 
to these buildings, as though desirous of inviting all 
the outside world to enter! Their grand old staircases 
winding around, seem admirably adapted to the uses 
made of them — as roomy and as gradual as the law 
itself. But there is a coldness within, a chilling damp- 
ness that benumbs the soul after traversing the holiday 
grounds in front. Thur* sense of stern reality that 
creeps over one here, as he lingers to listen to the 
cold presentments of the law's detail, or, perhaps, the 
errings of some unfortunate human being who was 
entrapped on the world's by-paths, is hardly in accord- 
ance with the glowing humor we may suppose to 

4® 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 

pervade the stranger's breast on his pleasure tour in 
quest of the oddities and bright historic places of our 
city. He seeks sunshine, not shade — amusement, and 
not the business of sorrow; and if he hangs around 
old walls, it is rather because of the ivy recollections 
they bring him than any love he has for the walls 
themselves. We will, therefore, leave the friend of 
Blackstone to brush away his own cobwebs, and to 
nurse his own grievance 



43 



Leaves of Thought, 




have before alluded to Chartres Street, 
that is, to the lower end ; but what may be 
termed Chartres Street proper is the nar- 
row extension between Jackson Square and Canal 
Street. Twenty years have scarcely elapsed since 
this was the gay fashionable street of our city, and the 
stern arbitrator and dispenser of taste and fashion. 
From it went out, as do the smaller limbs and branches 
from the parent tree, all the many nouvettes and niceties 
that Dame Paris, the arch modiste, invents to please 
pretty belles in the w T ay of shawls, dresses, bonnets, laces, 
ribbons, flowers, and a multitude of other nameless lit- 
tle articles that women only ought to know about, and 
which they have an undisputed right to love. Thereby 
it became the center of attraction to everybody who 
was anybody at all. Indeed, it was almost the first 
place visited by the wealthy planters' wives and daugh- 
ters on coming to the city ; and certainly none went 
away without perambulating its short length. Within 
these few squares was concentrated all that disturbed 
the peace and made up the happiness as well as much 

44 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 

of the beauty, of the female portion at least, of three- 
fifths of the families residing throughout the entire 
reach of the Mississippi Valley. In short, it became a 
paradise of a shopping place to the ladies. Hither, too, 
would the beaux repair to warm their hearts in the radi- 
ant smiles of the lovely fair ones who, like sunbeams or 
butterflies, were almost constantly fluttering about from 
one displayed gayety to another on a bright, sunshiny 
day. The sidewalks were always thronged; the store- 
keepers in the best of spirits ; everybody seemed to 
have a hand, a heart, and an open purse, at work 
within its limits. But what a change has come over 
it! Alas, how mutable are earthly possessions ! This 
street is no longer the mirror of fashion ; nearly all the 
fine stores are removed oft' it, and its glory has been 
transferred to its younger, haughty sister, Canal Street. 
Proud Rue de Chart res now wears a rueful face ; it sits 
disconsolate in its old clothes, looking more like one of 
the streets of ancient Damascus. Still, it is remem- 
bered for its former greatness, and, in common with 
other ruins, deserves to be recorded among the spots of 
New Orleans. On it are still standing some of its 
original buildings. The notable Girod mansion, at the 
corner of St. Louis Street, is the oldest and finest of 
these. Upon its dome is to be seen the identical 
weather-beaten vane that, in other days, told our fore- 

45 



Leaves of Thought. 



fathers the varying changes of the wind. The once 
eccentric, hospitable proprietor heeds not its tales ; he 
passed away long since, and left his charities and his 
peculiarities in the memory of others. Several an- 
tique, rusty-looking old edifices were removed from 
this street a few years ago, to give place to more mod- 
ern ones ; whilst the surviving ones are mostly come 
to base uses. There is one, for example, now made a 
nest for strange birds and eccentricities of nature gen- 
erally, that, within the memory of many, was the 
sacred den of an old hermit who retired in a manner 
from society, and, as the story goes, subsisted on rats 
and other similar dainties. He usually kept posted at 
his door or window, for the benefit of the outside 
world, mysteriously-written bulletins, which, like the 
newly-disinterred Egyptian hieroglyphics, doubtless 
had their significant meanings, .but, unfortunately for 
the unlearned masses, were too difficult to comprehend. 
He was only one of a number of human oddities that, 
from time to time, have acted out Life's farce within 
this narrow lane, and who were finally folded up and 
laid away as strange chapters in the journal of our. 
pathway to the past. These odd links in our history 
flourished mainly in the primitive days of bowlder 
pavements, before the novelty of granite blocks was 
introduced upon this street, and when the noisy, old 

46 



' Memory Types of New Orleans. 

fashioned game of " keno " nightly rang its changes 
from the different cafes and merry domiciles along its 
sides. Here also was a favorite rendezvous for the 
motley, fantastic crew of masked characters that run 
riot through our city on " Mardi gras," the day imme- 
diately preceding Lent; which lawless pack, composed, 
in late years, mostly of rude boys and silly, loose 
women, in their conceit of a Eoman carnival, have 
made our streets hideous with their yells, and whose 
barren exploits consist in dusting flour into unoffending 
negroes' faces and bandying vulgar expressions at the 
noticing few. Wars ago, this festival was kept with 
considerable spirit: the caricatures were numerous and 
witty. At least they were gotten up at greater ex- 
pense and displayed more point : besides, the actors 
appeared to be a better class. At best, however, they 
were always inferior, both in excellence of humor as 
well as in costliness of designs to the chaste and ele- 
gant representations afterward given by the secret 
order known as the : * Mistick Krewe,'" whose annual 
turn-outs and tableaux are remembered with pleasure, 
not merely by the jolly participants, but by all who 
were present to witness them. The past war threw 
its chilling influence over the latter, depriving us for a 
time of this our customary annual treat. Yet, we hope, 
with the return of brighter days, to welcome their joy- 
ous, inspiring pastimes among us. 

47 



Leaves of Thought. 



COM GO SQUARE. 

The present proper name of this square is "Place d' 
Armes." It is more familiarly known, however, by its 
old appellation, and probably will continue to be, as 
long as former recollections of it are retained. It is 
intimately associated with the whilom sports of the 
holiday-loving negro, to whose benefit it was occasion- 
ally surrendered under the old regime. This square 
has not changed in appearance as much as the one 
from which it derives its new name. There are a few 
of the old trees still adorning its walks. These latter 
a few years ago were reconstructed and regraded ; and 
an attempt made to cement them over, which was only 
partially successful. The whole interior, in fact, has 
been generally improved. Outside still linger, as 
memories of the past, squatty, one-story French cot- 
tages with primitive dormer-windows, like pigeon 
houses, on top. To the front is preserved the pictur- 
esque view of the St. Louis Cathedral in the distance; 
in the rear, loom up the frowning belfries of the old 
Parish Prison and the Treme Market ; while to one 
side are still seen the needle-like masts of small sloops 
and schooners that lazily wait upon the stale waters of 
the Old Basin for outward cargoes to remote parts on 
the borders of our lovely Lake Pontchartrain. The 

48 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 

square looks cleanly and inviting. It is a pretty play- 
ground for children, but we see comparatively few 
there. The trees have been newly whitewashed, the 
gates are wide open to admit visitors ; still they do not 
come ; at any rate they do not come like they used to. 
In our late visits there, we met but few, and these 
lacked the apparent cheerfulness of former times. 
Even the birds seemed to have forsaken the place. 
The old gun is gone too ; the well-remembered iron 
monitor that nightl}' told the negro the hour for 
retiring, whose crazy old wooden carriage has been 
repaired so often as scarcely to leave any of its original 
parts, which was the wonder of the place, and over 
which, in all probability, many a prayer was offered 
as well as many a marvelous tale told. Yes, the old 
gun is gone ; perhaps the gunner too. 

This historic cannon had been bestowed here during 
the era of change. It stood formerly in Jackson 
Square, and for a lifetime duly performed its part in 
the ministrations of government ; but finally was 
shamefully superseded by the more musical bell in 
the St. Louis Cathedral, which was adopted as its sub- 
stitute, to the perplexment and annoyance of many a 
deluded darkey who, as yet unused to the change, 
found his way to the calaboose instead of his comfort- 
able home-quarters, for not minding the injunction. 

49 



Leaves of Thought. 



As already hinted, prior to the advent of these changes, 
Congo Square was devoted, on Sunday afternoons espe- 
cially, to the unrestricted pleasures of the negroes. 
They assembled here by hundreds at such times to 
renew old loves, and to gather new friendships, to talk 
over affairs of the past week, and lay new plans for 
enjoyment in the coming ones ; also to spend whatever 
surplus picayunes and dimes they may have acquired 
from their honest labors, or which came to them either 
as incentives or rewards for good conduct ; for they 
were at this time generally a cared-for, a docile, and 
contented people. Here likewise were ventilated many 
of the mischievous, mystical, and often troublesome 
Voudou arts that ever had hold upon the hearts of 
this singular race. The negro is naturally supersti- 
tious, always ready to believe in .ghost stories, dreams, 
demons, and supernatural manifestation. He clings to 
the marvelous, indeed, to anything and every thing- 
mysterious ; and doubts not the ability of certain gifted 
ones of his own kind to exorcise evil spirits, though 
the evidence on their part is shown in the lightest and 
most unsubstantial tricks. 

They collected here from all parts of the city, some 
in their e very-day working clothes, others arrayed in 
the accumulated cast-off finery of their patronizing 
superiors ; the women usually sporting the stylish 

50 



.Memory Types of New Orleans. 

bandana, snugly tied about the back part of the head 
so as to display that organ advantageously ; while the 
more independent men, on whom devolved heavier 
labors, made the best show they could in what they 
inherited of their masters' toilette, or the state of their 
finances and the times permitted. Around the square, 
inside as well as out. in convenient localities, were 
distributed small booths or stands for the sale of cakes, 
pies, and pop beer, all which animal supports were 
well patronized, and. in a great degree, were the fun- 
damental causes of most of the disputations noise as 
they were of the hilarity of the place. When a suf- 
ficient number were assembled, the dancing, an ordi- 
nary duty of the day. commenced. To this end the 
company divided off into small squads of a dozen or 
more at set distances throughout the square. Each 
squad had its own musician, who measured time and 
encouraged the dancers, either on a wheezing violin, a 
tambourine, or a banjo ; or, in the absence of these, 
upon an approaching instrument of his own construc- 
tion. A circle or ring was formed, and into it ven- 
tured a couple at a challenge, when, without further 
warning, a start was given to 

"The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
By holding out to tire each other down.'' 

51 



Leaves of Thought. 



Perhaps the first to lead off would be aspiring profes- 
sionals who had obtained a knowledge of the art at 
one of the down-town assemblies, and whose eminent 
attainments seldom failed of securing them applause ; 
but these generally gave way, as the work grew 
warmer, to the less artistic but more sinewy novices 
who depended upon their ample extremities to supply 
any deficiency in their education. Occasionally a 
muscular, broad-shouldered, bow-legged fellow would 
be compelled to yield the honors to a fragile lass, solely 
on account of his shoes being too small for his feet or 
too dilapidated for the service. In our peregrinations 
that way one afternoon, we remember hearing a party 
of outsiders applaudingly comment upon the achieve- 
ments of a chunky little n egress, who was then in the 
ring, laboring mightily to "break down " the fourth or 
fifth champion who had incautiously accepted her 
challenge. She was earnestly at work, and, it seemed 
to us, with a fair prospect of succeeding. Her ebony 
companion appeared desirous of procuring a reputa- 
tion, but his nervous, random hitches at his pantaloons, 
and loud breathing, gave unmistakable evidence of his 
threatening failure. "I tell you," said one of the 
subdued number to a listening bystander, as he 
wiped the streaming tide of perspiration from his 
brow, " She 's a dancer ! She 's what you may call a 

52 



Leaves of Thought. 



natural dancer — a dancer from the heart." He then 
went on to relate, as much on his own behalf as hers 
we thought, his own trial with the redoubtable Ce- 
leste. 

We left them still watching her movements with 
apparent astonishment. Her feet were going with the 
rapidity of water buckets on the sidewheels of our 
steamers, but her countenance changed not a feature. 
Her arms were rigidly set in order to concentrate 
power upon the lower dependent parts. As we turned 
to leave, we fancied we detected a smile on her face; 
whether because of a secret satisfaction she felt of 
having acquitted herself so well in our presence, or 
because her tiring antagonist stumbled at a neighbor- 
ing piece of brick, we are not prepared to say — but we 
presume it was the latter. The musicians, as well as 
the music, held a prominent place in the drama. True, 
their instruments were defective ; but these were dili- 
gently served, and with a spirit that made them a 
power within themselves. When a string snapped, it 
was speedily adjusted with a tie; more rosin was ap- 
plied, and the pla}^ went on sharper and faster than 
before. Neither were they restricted to any particular 
order of sounds; but each dealt these out as his own 
taste, his ability, and the heat of the dance demanded. 
There is nothing, probably, outside of eating arrange- 

53 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 

ments that has a more controlling influence over the 
negro than music. His susceptible soul is overcome 
by its enchantments. He listens attentively to the 
sweet, pensive, pleasing strains of the organ, the ac- 
cordeon, and the flute ; the fife and drums recruit his 
waning strength ; but when he catches the lively tones 
of the laughing violin, every faculty of his soul and 
body are at once let loose in accordance with its dis- 
coursing^. Hence, it may be supposed on occasions 
like these, where all were left to the unrestrained 
enjoyment of pastimes of their own selection, they 
reached the full summit of happiness that their un- 
tutored minds and hearts were capable of. And, 
whether believed or not, it is nevertheless true, the 
negro was happier then, more useful, and better con- 
tented than he has been since. But his dancing days 
in Congo Square are over; the banjo and the violin 
are heard there no more ; the deserted square has be- 
come a Place d'Armes — a sober retreat for the care- 
worn citizen — a play -ground for young children — and 
the once-mirthful slave is having his "break-down" 
on the "wide, wide world," or within the limits of 
some distant plantation. May his future days be as 
happy as they were then ! In all probability many 
who were actors in these scenes have passed beyond 
this life's allurements; still, there may be some, 

54 



Memory Types of New Orleans. 



busily engaged in its farrows, who quietly sigh at 
times for a repetition of those happy hours, and 
who retrospectively cast a longing look back at the 
days 

u AVhen dey were in der teens, 
Down in Lusyanna, in the State ob Orleans." 



55 



Leaves of Thought. 



Leaves of Thought. 




TO THE MISSISSIPPI. 



[ELL me whither, in such haste, thou goest, 
Ever whirling, boiling, turbid river! 
Art thou destined, us thou proudly flowest, 

Always thus to freely flow forever? 

Strange Mississippi! thou art, at thy source, 

Clear and pure, controllable in motion ; 

What kindred streams have urged thee on thy course, 

To lose thyself so angrily in ocean? 

Ere man. in his primeval habit, stood 
And marked the boundaries where thou has strayed 
Through tangled forests, cane, and cottonwood; 
Through prairie, mountain pass, and everglade, 
In undetermined pathways of thy own, 
Thy course has ever been, as it shall be 
For ages past, for years to come unknown, 
As wild, as irresistible, as free. 

59 



To the Mississippi. 



Instructive memories of other date 

Along thy banks, a thousand miles, are cast — 

Which, to the curious traveler, relate 

Historic records of the hidden past; 

Which tell of changes that were slowly wrought 

By thy destructive, devastating tide ; 

Which mark the character of human thought, 

A nation's progress, and a nation's pride. 

Where now the opulence of man is spread, 

And art and industry their gifts bestow, 

The painted savage, numbered with thy dead, 

Was the sole monarch a few years ago. 

Where, undisturbed, the sea fowl napped its wings 

The mariner his canvas has unfurled ; 

And commerce, to a thrifty people brings, 

Th' accumulated riches of a world. 

From the rough hills of the inclement North. 
As undeterred by distance as by time, 
Thy swelling mass of waters issue forth 
To bear earth's bounty to this sunny clime. 
How often on thy willing bosom borne 
Full-freighted vessels have I loved to scan, 
Each on its peaceful mission steering on 
To cheer the intercourse of man with man. 



60 



Leaves of Thought. 



As now along thy southern banks I range. 
And note the changes that I find in thee, 
I am reminded of the greater change 
That surely has and must come over me. 

Perhaps, for ages, thou wilt onward move. 
In all thy strength, magnificence, and pride, 
When separated from the friends I love, 
I shall be sleeping coldly at thy side. 

Thy edd'ing stream that whirls in ceaseless strife, 
The wrecks that on thy shifting sands are seen, 
Are but a history of human life, 
Of what my joys, my hopes, my tears have been. 
But, unlike thee, O may my cares subside 
Ere the dull grave invites me as its guest! 
And may my soul in peaceful humor glide 
Into a haven of eternal rest. 



61 



Leaves of Thought. 




SPRING TIME 



^OME, let us leave the haunts of busy men, 
And to the woods and fields awhile repair : 
I love to ramble in the country, when 
Enraptured Spring declares that God is there. 
Now, Winter's torpid reign is at an end, 
And birds have left their hiding nooks to sing; 
Sweet orange blossoms and verbenas lend 
Their grateful odors to the breath of Spring. 

To those who are pent up in towns like ours, 
Where nought is seen but heartless forms of trade ; 
'Tis a rare treat to stroll among the flowers, 
And learn by whom and for whom these were made. 
'Tis a relief to breathe the country air — 
To feel, in our just pride, that we are free, 
As children in their father's house, to share 
The common blessings of the family. 

As we look on the face of mother earth, 
Clad in her mourning robes, new charms appear ; 
Our hearts rejoice to witness the new birth 
Of vegetation sent to bless the year. 

62 



Spring Time, 



Of man's best works of art the soul will tire. 
When it has known the most that man can do ; 
But Nature's gifts the wisest must admire. 
For these are perfect and are always new. 

The trees are putting forth their tender leaves, 
And here and there a flower is peeping out 
From thickets, where the artful spider weaves 
His snares to catch the thoughtless flies about. 
On land, in air, in vast profusion swarms 
The sprightly insect, full of its young blood ; 
Which crawl or fly, as suits their varied forms, 
Like living atoms though the neighborhood. 

The swollen streamlets now no longer bound. 
In merry humor wind their crooked way 
Where, like mock soldiers on a parade ground, 
The noisy, gabbling geese are seen to stray. 
Thither the cock, with his full score of wives, 
A jealous lord, is strutting o'er the plain ; 
Proud of his honor, as with zeal he strives 
To lure the cackling gang in search of grain. 

The farmer in his wide, extended field, 
Guides his slow team to plow the tufted soil, 
Or break the clods that in due time will yield 
A fair abundance to reward his toil. 



Leaves of Thought. 



While on the lawn, beneath the widespread oak, 
Where sheep, and goats, are browsing with the kine. 
Released from their sore burden of the yoke, 
The sluggish oxen lazily recline. 

Yonder sit perched astraddle on a log 
Two playful urchins riding into town ; 
Whose laughs encourage their mischievous dog 
To hunt the harmless ducks and chickens down. 
Ah, little know the inexperienced pair 
On their delusive jaunts, by fancy traced, 
What disappointments will await them there 
In the romantic realms to which they haste. 

Back a few paces from the beaten road, 
Where nestling vines entwine among the trees, 
Is seen the neatly-painted frame abode 
Where honest labor finds its hours of ease. 
And, standing outside of the garden gate, 
When the descending sun of evening tells, 
Upon the motions of the milk maid wait 
The laden milch cows, tinkling their small bells. 

Blest home of peace, of innocence and health ! 
Could I escape the coils that round me twine, 
I gladly would exchange my dreams of wealth 
For the reality of joys like thine. 

64 



The Crushed Violet. 



The remnant of my life I here would spend 

In contemplation of the world above ; 

Where each day's march toward my journey's end 

Would bring me nearer to the G-od I love. 




THE CRUSHED VIOLET. 

HERE are events in life that seem, 

During their brief existence, single; 
Which, when returning as a dream 
In after years, appear to mingle. 
Like those small hands that singly move 

Around upon our dial faces; 
But which the hours and minutes prove, 
Do often blend as one in places. 

Some years ago, in May or June, 

As I was through a garden walking 
With a dear child, one afternoon, 

Listening to the youngsters talking, 
I happened carelessly to tread 

On a small flower, that few surpasses — 
A violet, that reared its head 

Among some weeds and common grasses. 
65 



Leaves of Thought. 



I stooped to see what harm was done 

The fair one, on its lonely mission ; 
And, by its style and fragrance won, 

Pelt pained to learn its true condition. 
The weeds and grass I brushed aside, 

And, drawing up its parts together, 
I left the crushed one to abide 

Its chances of the coming weather. 

A week hence, passing near that way, 

I sought it out, when I discovered 
The flower was dead — its body lay 

Beneath the weeds that o'er it hovered. 
It was an accident, I know, 

To a mere plant, yet I regret it ; 
And subsequent events do show 

I am not likely to forget it. 

Since then, my darling boy, 

Who with me through those grounds was stray- 
ing, 
Has also died ; and worms destroy 

The hands that with that plant were playing. 
Over his grave the flowers bloom. 

And fall and die for the same reason ; 
When strangers' feet around his tomb 

Tread down those flowers in their season. 
66 



The Crashed Violet. 



Death has to me forever hushed 

A voice, in which my soul delighted ; 
And thus my footsteps rudely crashed 

A joy. that by the world was slighted. 
Like that young fragile flower, my child 

Had barely tasted of life's pleasures ; 
Yet, in his death, he sweetly smiled 

Amidst the wreck of broken treasures. 

Whene'er I turn toward the sod 

That screens from me his face mice cheering, 
To watch the growth of flowers that God, 

Through our affections, there is rearing — 
A thought of that lost violet 

Before me like a shadow courses; 
To mingle in the deep regret 

My heart endures for recent losses. 

Perhaps, if I had fondly nursed 

In life the plant, which death has cherished, 
The wound that it received at first 

Had healed again — it had not perished. 
Or, if when left thus to decay, 

It had found elsewhere love to win it. 
My wounded heart would have to-day 

One sorrow less enshrined within it. 



67 



Leaves of Thought. 




GLIMPSES OF HEAVEN. 



^HEEE are moments in life when our measure 
of bliss 
Is disturbed by a word that was carelessly 
spoken, 
When we shrink from the gloom of a false world 

like this, 
Where the ties of the heart are so easily broken. 
Yet a look may dispel the dark shade that was cast 
O'er our joys when those wrongs are confessed and 

forgiven ; 
And our hearts, thus returned to the loves of the 

past, 
Will reflect through their tear drops some glimpses 
of heaven. 

There are trials, like clouds, that arise on our way — 
There are temptations too of gain, pleasure, and 

beauty, 
Which, in unguarded moments, would urge us to stray 
From the straightforward, plain course of honor and 

duty ; 

68 



Glimpses of Heaven . 



Yet we may. like the sun as it sinks in the West 

Before taking its final departure at even. 

Break away from these clouds, which are shadows at 

best. 
And illumine our pathway with glimpses of heaven. 

There are times when we look upon what we pose 
As being part of God's bounty, not wholly our own : 
And are ready to share with the poor in distress. 
Who are neglectedly on the world's charities thrown. 
When the needy to aid. or the sick to restore. 
In the cause of the Savior this bounty is given. 
Though the part we extract will have lightened our 

store. 
It will give us some beautiful glimpses of heaven. 

There are those whom their own flesh and blood have 

denied 
For offences their accusers themselves are not free. 
Who are down-trodden outcasts upon the roadside. 
Without God, without the hope of repentance to see — 
Whom the Savior would say to: :: Go, sin thou now 

no more ;" 
But by man. guilty man. to despair have been driven, 
Go to such, oh ! my soul, and, if never before. 
Thou shalt have many distinct and true glimpses of 

heaven. 

69 



Leaves of Thought. 



In the years of the man who has earnestly sought 
Throughout life's perilous journey his passions to 

quell, 
There are seasons of bitter contrition and thought, 
Over the ways and the times where he stumbled and 

fell. 
When, like Peter, though loving his master and Lord, 
In his weakness, unaided by grace, he has striven 
To conquer ; but failing, has then turned to his God 
And obtained some encouraging glimpses of heaven. 

There 's a time in this world when withdrawn from 

its strife, 
In baptismal waters are our past sins washed away. 
And there 's a night at the close of a good man's life 
That ushers in the bright morning of infinite day. 
When assured that our names are recorded above. 
Our best deeds all remembered, our sins all forgiven, 
We can rest all our cares on our dear Savior's love, 
And rely on His promise for glimpses of heaven. 



70 



The Prism and the Sunbeam. 



w$& 



THE PRISM AND THE SUNBEAM. 

gW^ET fools and statesmen argue, if they please, 
g§! For independence, in their hours of ease ; 
Their loose, disjointed logic fails to prove 
That in society men simply move ; 
That, while through life our phantoms we pursue, 
The rich man can without the poor man do. 
Such chat is idle — nay. 'tis even worse — 
There's no such freedom in the universe: 
Absolute independence none have known — 
It is attribute of God's alone ; 
All are dependent in a world like this 
On some one else for their small share of bliss. 
Man, isolated from mankind, would stand 
As nearly useless as a grain of sand ; 
Though, when he mingles wisely with the race, 
He is of some importance in his place. 

One summer's morning, after a short rain, 
A sunbeam, glancing through a window pane, 
Fell on a prism that was dangling near, 
Suspended from a stately chandelier ; 

71 



Leaves of Thought. 



And, dazzled by the colors there displayed, 
(Which it presumed, of course, itself had made) 
In admiration of its charms expressed, 
Thus to the piece of glass itself addressed : 

•In thee, my pretty mirror, I can trace 
Correctly all the features of my face ; 
That heavenward on thee does brightly shine, 
As though the luster, true, was simply thine. 
Free born above in my celestial home, 
Of my own will to this dark world I come, 
Dispensing life and joy, which all will own. 
Are found in me, and spring from me alone. 
A portion merely of yon purest sun. 
I act on all, receiving aid from none; 
Hence, to my plumage of such varied hue, 
Is this thy borrowed splendor wholly due." 

To which the offended Prism thus replied : 
'I own, vain Sunbeam, I'm to earth allied; 
And so are you, if you would justly see 
The common source that lights both you and me. 
'Tis true I am but a piece of glass. 
Through which your subtle soul does freely pass ; 
Yet half the present elegance you view, 
To my peculiar form is strictly due ; 
And, were it not for the pure ambient air, 

72 



The Prism and the Sunbeam. 



I doubt if either would appear so fair. 
By no refracted cause your plumage bright, 
Indeed, without me. you were merely white; 
Therefore, my fair one, what you now perceive, 
Is not your own — you give and you receive/' 

Just then, a cloud, that passed before the sun, 
Obscured the whole of what the pair had done; 
And. as it sent the frightened beam away. 
In its complaining mood was heard to say: 
•Since in my presence neither of yon shine, 
A portion, truly, of this praise is mine; 

Which, failing to award inc. you Bhall Bee 

'Tis of my clemency ye both are fiv 

The blaze of glory ye have chimed below 

Is as well witnessed in my misty bow 

That, in the arch of heaven extended there; 

Doe< more than with this humble Prism compare. 

Nay, richer hues than this are amply lent 

To my wings' tips along the firmament." 

-Ha! ha!" laughed otit some tiny drops of rain, 
"We could as well of thee complain. 
Where, smoky grumbler, would be your bright bow, 
Did we not with you on your journey go? 
And where your boasted luster in the sky, 
Were there no sun nor moon to light you by?" 

73 



Leaves of Thought. 



From this, let those who can, the lesson draw. 
That all created things are, by God's law, 
For other than a selfish use designed — 
Made, more or less, dependent on their kind. 
None stand alone, sequestered from the race ; 
None occupy a wholly useless place : 
None are too affluent, none are too poor 
To give, to need some blessing to secure ; 
And they are most dependent who are not. 
In their own sphere contented with their lot. 



THE AMERICAN INDIAN 



% WflWHEY had driven him from his early home. 




And the enemy fast and thick did come, 

His natural rights invading: 
His heart had failed him in his search of food 
And the fallen-spirited Indian stood 
In thought on his prospects fading. 

Coldly and loudly the night winds damp 
Blew over him there in that trackless swamp. 
The dirge of his race repeating : 

74 



The American Indian. 



He never had heeded their mournful tone, 
But they told him a tale so like his own, 
He listened to their sad greeting. 

The decaying leaves that were 'round him east 

By the approaching winter's deadly blast, 

A tear to his eye had started; 

As they went to the earth they served to tell 

How, one by one. his companions fell. 

Until the whole were departed. 

In the midst of war he was brave and bold. 
Xor fear to his heart did the scene unfold. 
As he bravely dealt about him ; 
But the Indian wept for his kindred slain. 
That, lonely and last, he should now remain, 
In the dreary world without them. 

No more will he hear the accustomed sounds 

Of their mirth borne over his hunting grounds. 

The frightened deer pursuing; 

They are gone to a distant, happy home, 

Where the Great Spirit dwells, where nought can come 

Of the white man's treacherous doing. 

Go, take his life — it has nothing to give; 
The struggle is made, he cares not to live. 
Again on his arm relying; 

75 



Leaves of Thought. 



He has sheath'd his knife, to be drawn no more. 
For his friends, his babes, and his faithful squaw, 
Are low in their cold graves lying. 




"IN THE DEEP FOREST." 

EOTHEE, let us wander 
In the deep forest yonder 
Where the choristers of nature sing all the 
year round : 

There the trees grow firmer. 
And the rivulets murmur 
O'er rough, shallow places through the fairy-haunted 
ground. 

There the wild fowls tarry — 
There the timid squirrels carry 
All of what they gather, to accumulate a store ; 
For in snowy weather 
The}' have to eat together. 
And the nuts grow scarcer as the winter pa-- - 
o'er. 

76 



In the Deep Forest. " 



In the spring-time early. 

When blossoms white and pearly 

Appear upon the hedges, and the suns bright ray- 
Make the dew-drops glitter. 
We will hear the birds twitter 

Of the harvest-time coming in the long summer 
day- 

Those little birds love us ; 

And in the trees above as 
We'll hear them tell us o' the places where they 
mean to build their nests. 

In the tangled brier ; 

In the slender poplar spire; 
And even on the summit of the sycamore cre^t-. 

Then we will pluck flower-. 

As we while away the hours. 
In the grand concert chamber of nature over there: 

And join in the chorus. 

With tenor voices o'er us. 
As they warble God's praises on the still morning air. 

There are sweet sounds often 
That tranquilize and soften 
The throbbings of the heart in the festal halls of 
mirth ; 

77 



Leaves of Thought. 



But though we all love them, 
E'en the fondest tire of them, 
Their music has an echo of the emptiness of earth. 

But in the dense forest, 

Where Xature is the chorist, 
Voices of departed ones that harmonize the whole; 

In the soft winds swaying, 

On leaves and branches playing, 
Sing to saddened hearts like ours the music of the 
soul. 

Then, brother, we will go 

Where the water lilies grow, 
As perfect little sun-shades as fishes ever saw; 

And watch the speckled trout, 

As they dart and swim about, 
As though they were delighted to see us on the 
shore. 

Our hearts will grow fonder, 

In their intercourse yonder, 
Beneath the silver-leafed maple on the green bank's 
side ; 

We will sit down by it 

In the afternoon quiet, 

And there revel in the castles of our noonday 

pride. 

78 



The Old Gnarled Oak. 



Or, in the lone wild wood, 

We can borrow from childhood 

3Iany reminiscences we never shall forget : 
Fancy painted bubbles 
That bursting in our troubles, 

Left us vacant spaces that we cherish with regret. 




THE OLD GNARLED OAK. 

|£N a stubble field, near the old homestead. 
Stands an aged oak that has reared its head: 
Wi nter and summer, through many a storm. 
That cruelly twisted and scarred its form. 

For an hundred and fifty years, they say. 
It has firmly stood, as it stands to-day; 
'Tis an old landmark — where the farmers now, 
For awhile recline, when they come to plow. 

On its gnarly trunk were some records traced 
Of our school-day loves, which are now defaced : 
And a mimic sketch of our teacher's head. 
Whom the artist regarded with decent dread. 

79 



Leaves of Thought. 



Where the old tree stands in that open space, 
In those early days was a forest place ; 
A silent retreat, where the sounds were heard 
Of the chirping squirrel and blue-jay bird. 

There we truants played on our way to school, 
And frolicked and romped in its shades so cool : 
There, in autumn time, when the nuts would fall, 
We went with the girls to secure them all. 

But the squirrels and nuts are gone away — 
For the woodman's ax, in its ruthless sway, 
Has leveled the neighboring trees that stood 
Near the grim old oak, in that lone wild wood. 

Like a sentinel there it stands alone ; 
Its branches are crooked and scraggy grown ; 
And its fallen leaves on the rough clods lie, 
The mere sport of winds that go surging by. 

Once young tendrils clung to the old oak's side, 
Like the tender plants of our family pride; 
But those vines are severed, and long since dead. 
As the heart strings are of our loved homestead. 

Ah, my heart grows sad of the thoughts that come. 
As the mind reverts to my former home: 
For the marks of time on that lonely tree. 
xlre voices that tell of its work on me. 

80 



Lines. 

The old oak shadows my wrinkled form, 
The effect of many a winter's storm ; 
While its leafless boughs, in its dreary age, 
- ow my fruitless tramp on this trifling stage. 

What vision- of joy. that I thought would last, 
Ha^e vanished away as the seasons passed; 
And what hopes and plans that my youth designed, 
In traveling on. have been left behind. 

So have one by one of my kindred day. 
Parents, brothers, and Bisters, passed away; 
Until, like that oak. I am left to stand 
Here, the only one of that happy hand. 



L 1 N E s 



Written on seeing a late photograph of Alexander Camp- 
bell, of Bethany. Virginia. 

*X separate pathways tending to that bourne, 
S^tf% Where eacn expects to lay his burden down; 
Through change of seasons w T e have plodded on, 
Since starting out to gain our heavenly crown. 
81 




Leaves of Thought. 



Eventful years with care and sorrow fraught, 
Whose record now I scarcely can retrace. 

Have passed since we last met, and time has wrought 
Its ruthless changes on that manly face. 

Those lengthened locks that are become so gray. 

Which reverently tell of life's decline. 
Are well-meant monitors that point the way 

To where he shortly must earth's cares resign. 

They cluster 'round his brow, and sweep his breast, 
As did the patriarch's long years ago ; 

And, like those lasting snows on Alpine crest. 
Denote a distance from the world below. 

Which elevated peaks, above the range 

Of what does on earth's lower surface dwell. 

Are not disturbed by straggling winds that change 
Their currents often in the noisy dell. 

Those whitened hairs that have rich honors worn. 

The luster of his well-sj)ent life display: 
As mountain tops reflect the setting sun 

That lingers "round them at the close of day. 

Those eyes now dim. that once with reason's fire 
Were lighted up in the young march of life, 

Are turned to teach his spirit to aspire 
To a much nobler and a higher strife ; 

82 



, Lines. 

To watch its progress on the heavenly road ; 

To nurse the flowers of thought that else might fade; 
To catch new glimpses of that blest abode, 

Which lies beyond our misty ev'ning's shade. 

Those failing limbs, which further tend to prove 

The crash of time, by gradual decay, 
Unfitted in life's busy mart to move, 

In parent dust will soon be laid away. 

But not until his spirit has been borne 

Beyond the reach of human wrongs and pain ; 

There they shall rest, too, till that coming morn, 
Where all will rise to consciousness again. 

That voice in former years BO eloquent, 

Whose tones once thrilled us and whose sweetness 
charmed. 

By age enfeebled, hath its forces spent, 

Though not of wisdom or of truth disarmed. 

It still proclaims the ways of God to man, 
While hills and vales its sounds reverberate; 

And younger hearts through which its echoes ran, 
To younger list'ners will its truths relate. 

All whom will bless him on that narrow road 
Which leads to God, to happiness, and love ; 

Where having laid aside its mortal load, 
His spirit freely soars in realms above. 

83 



Leaves of Thought. 




A RAINY DAY IN TOWN. 

I 
NOTHER, yes, another rainy day ! 

^vAnd here, within the narrow walls of home, 

f*& We are house prisoners, compelled to stay ; 

But not to dream the hours of life away. 

Nor nurse unpleasant thoughts of what 

may come. 

There 's work enough for little hands to do — 
And little feet need not here idly stand. 
While all these drops of rain are busy too. 
Descending to the earth to work for you. 

To cleanse the streets and fertilize the land. 

Look out a moment through the window pane. 
And see them pattering through the neighborhood ; 
They, falling on the pavement, rise again. 
And dance, and jump, and sing their merry strain, 
And bubble on the kennel's dirty flood. 

All have important errands to fulfill ; 
Some will remain to quench the thirst of earth, 
While others down in streamlets run. to fill 
The rivers and the ocean, whence they will 
Return in clouds to save us from a dearth. 

84 



A Rainy Bay in Town. 



Those pretty bubbles you see floating by 
Are nothing more than little drops of rain, 
That, coming hither from the distant sky, 
Are lifted up, apparently to try 

To get back to those airy realms again. 

See those young truants paddling in that pool ! 
It seems to me their parents act amiss ; 
It were far better, as a gen'ral rule. 
To keep such tender youngsters home from school 
On such a "gloomy, rainy day as this. 

And there 's a child of want I Ye seen before. 
Facing this pitiless, autumnal storm : 
Tyrant Necessity, that knows no law. 
Has driven her out to beg, from door to door. 
A day's subsistence in that humble form. 

And here conies, dripping wet. a woman, and 
Pity 'tis her skirts were not made shorter, 
With rickety umbrella in her hand ; 
She looks as if she previously had planned 
To get her full share of mud and water. 

The boys and men are in a better plight. 
As they can freely skip about alone; 
Though there is one in pantaloons of white, 
Who now presents a melancholy sight, 
For stepping rashly on a tilted stone. 
85 



Leaves of Thought. 



Here, hang my hat and coat upon the rack ; 
Bring out the table, and the books arrange; 
Draw up the curtains, push the shutters back, 
And hand me down my favorite almanac, 

That I may learn the hour the moon will change. 

Those morning journals carefully read o'er. 
That are as useless lumber thither cast, 
Gather up and place them in the drawer ; 
They gave us pleasure and may give us more 
Some future day, referring to the past. 

Turn on the gas — do let us have some light ! 
In room as dark as this one scarce can move, 
Though owls and bats, and cats and kittens might ; 
Good friends, I think you '11 find that I was right — 
This is no shower, as the day will prove. 



THE SEA GULLS. 



V^n$ HEEE, pray, noisy sea gulls, tell me, 
^||||>On our stricken planet dwell ye? 
Come ye from the poles together 
Prating of a change of weather? 
86 




The Sea Gulls. 



Or, from secret, dark eaves yonder. 
Merely to annoy and plunder? 
Are ye from above, or from the 
Lower regions; pray, whence come ye? 

Roving like the winds that bear ye. 
To nought else would I compare ye 
Than a set of mad-cap devils 
Out on their mischievous revels: 
Soon to leave, we know not whither. 
With the storms that bring you hither. 
Prythee, mariners, can you tell 
Where these noisy sea gulls dwell? 

Birds they are of evil omen — 
Harbingers of good to no one ; 
By the storm clouds madly driven. 
Neither of the earth nor heaven. 
Never resting, always flying — 
To each others* shrieks replying : 
Rioting in wild commotion. 
Like the fretted waves of ocean. 

In the broad expanse above us 
Floating like the forms that love us ; 
Then in giddy whirls descending. 
To the river's surface tending: 
Of its muddy waters sipping ; 
87 



Leaves of Thought. 



In its stirred-np channels dipping ; 
Thus frolicking away in strife 
Their barren troubled dream of life. 

Foolish sea gulls! ye remind me 
Of earth scenes that often blind me; 
When my soul, vexed with displeasure, 
Loses sight of its best treasure. 
Truth and Love, and Joy and Eeason, 
Faintly glimmer for a season ; 
And my sinful passions riot 
Where before were peace and quiet. 

Thus, when moral darkness lowers 
Eound us in tempestuous hours, 
Our poor hearts, in gross confusion, 
Led on by some strange delusion, 
Turn away from God, as fearless, 
To scenes stormy, void and cheerless; 
Turn from our best friends and heaven, 
Unloved, unloving, unforgiven. 



88 



Growing Richer.*' 




-GROWING RICHER/' 



0, love, we are not poorer grown, 
Despite our remitted labors ; 
True, we've no lands to call our own, 
Like many of our wealthier neighbors. 
Still we are not as poor as some 
Who live in more exalted places ; 
Xor rich as those poor souls who come 
To bless us with their happy faces. 

The world believes us that we are poor, 
And it does well, perhaps, to shun us ; 
For we have nothing, I am sure, 
To make the syren smile upon us. 
The fickle goddess loves her own, 
Who dearly pay for all her favors ; 
But all her false embraces shown 
Could not from heart-ills ever save us. 

Our earthly stores may waste away, 
And insincere friends may forsake us; 
Yet we grow richer ev'ry day 
That disappointments overtake us. 
89 



Leaves of Thought. 



If, rising from the mist and gloom. 
That hovers o'er the present merely. 
Like Mary at the Savior's tomb, 
We seek the Lord we love sincerely. 

Yes, we grow richer ev'ry day 

As something useful we are learning: 

While each day's progress on our way 

Makes brighter the next sun returning. 

Though fears occasionally come, 

Through grace we see our pathway clearer 

As journeying onward toward home 

The nightfall brings us one day nearer. 

Though often in this world denied 
The joys expected of its hours. 
Upon our pilgrimage we tried 
To strew each other" s way with flowers. 
And, released from the day's concern. 
Our troubles for the time forgetting. 
At ev'ning's dusky shade we'd turn 
To where our sun of life was setting. 

The lovers of this world may scoff 
At those who bow not to its pleasures ; 
But the rich mans the poorest off 
Whose tinsel is his only treasure. 
90 



Growing Richer." 



And those who its vain shows approve — 
Who listen to its wrong instructions, 
Are moths that near the candle move 
To bring about their own destruction. 

Along the shady side of life, 
Since starting out on it together, 
We both have toiled amid the strife 
A needful competence to gather. 
But now our limbs need some repose, 
The frosted locks of age remind us ; 
And drawing near our journey's close, 
We soon shall leave this world behind us. 

Our portion that appears so slim 

Will satisfy our present hunger; 

So, leaving future wants to Him 

Who was our stay when we were younger- 

We, leaning on his arm in prayer, 

Will jog along with those who love us, 

Toward that better country, where 

The skies are alwa}^s bright above us. 



91 



Leaves of Thought. 



OUR WOODEN CLOCK. 

UE good old wooden clock, dear wife, whose 

Wk ^ hands 

ir ^ W ere seldom known to move too fast or slow, 

Upon the bed-room mantle-piece still stands, 

Just as it did near twenty years ago. 

Its face is older grown ; its case, like ours. 

Appears somewhat the worse, 'tis true, for wear : 

But still we lov'd it for the joyful hours 

It has recorded since we placed it there. 

A well-tried, faithful servant it has been, 
Though frequently subjected to abuse; 
Within its walls were always to be seen 
Some trine stowed away for future use. 
Thus served it as a hiding place or cell 
For thimbles, buttons, and sometimes a vial : 
While outwardly it only seemed to tell 
The time of day like any other dial. 

I sit and gaze upon its time-bronzed face, 
Which has so oft our fleeting moments told 
And which the while it did those moments trace, 
Has like ourselves, been surely growing old. 

92 



Our Wooden Clock. 



It brings up recollections of the past, 
When you and I were young, and slightly heeded 
Life's passing hours, which we thought would last — 
Or be by other brighter ones succeeded. 

It chides me for the hours I idly spent, 

The many precious moments I neglected ; 

Our murmurings at providences sent 

In mercy to us where we least expected. 

I never hear it strike the hour of ten — 

Though there has intervened some seven summers — 

But painful thoughts arise of the night, when 

Our youngest born, dear wife, was taken from us. 

I recollect when I first brought it home, 
Your curiosity to know its donor ; 
And how our friends of evenings would come, 
With cheerful words, to greet you as its owner. 
And well I mind, with how much secret pride, 
The doubtful question we debated, whether 
It were, on Life's long road, to be our guide, 
So long as we should travel it together. 

Where are those young friends now? Ah! where are 

they ? 
They do not come as they were wont to meet us ; 
Xot one of them, dear wife, is here to-day, 

98 



Leaves of Thought. 



As they were then, with a loud laugh to greet us. 
Some live in distant homes ; while some repose 
Beneath the sod, beside their sainted mothers — 
Where we shall join them at the evening's close, 
And leave our good old wooden clock to others. 




? 



THE MOTHER'S DREAM. 

^LONE a mother knelt 

g Beside the couch whereon her dead child lay 
Cold, ghastly pale and motionless. She felt 
That with its spirit all had passed away ; 
That her best hopes lay crushed and blighted there, 
As she thus bowed herself in secret prayer. 

All was dark before her ; 
A dismal void — till, nature overcome, 
Sleep kindly drew its charmed mantle o'er her. 
And closed awhile the dreariness of home — 
Bringing sweet visions of her child at rest, 
Life-like as when it lay upon her breast. 

The mother dreamt she heard 
Its joyous laugh, as on the air it came; 



The Mother's Dream. 



At which her wounded heart was deeply stirred. 
And, rushing forward, calling it by name. 
She caught the fair one fondly by the hand, 
And was conducted through the heavenly land. 

Where all those she met, 
Like her blest child, with love were animate ; 
Whose social converse caused her to forget 
The recent sorrows of her former state : 
All were so happy : all so bright, so fair ! 
The wand"ring stranger wished to linger there. 

On a far distant shore, 
(A deep abyss between themselves and her,) 
From whence she looked, she thought she dimly saw. 
Of old and young — with whom none may confer — 
A multitude, that aimlessly did roam 
Friendless mid friends, and houseless evn at home. 

Among the rest was one. 
Delicately formed like hers, but older ; 
A fond, yet erring mother s only son, 
Whose past history the angels told her. 
He, lost to virtue, on the earth had died, 
By God. by man. by heaven and earth denied. 

When thus she spake — u My own, 
My loved, my lost one found, when thou did'st leave 

95 



Leaves of Thought. 



Earth's joys for these, as then to me unknown, 
No untried heart can tell how mine did grieve ; 
But, ah, how short my love ! that thee I see 
From sin, from sorrow, and from death set free." 

To which the child replied : 
"It is not death that gives us greatest pain; 
For when for all of us the Savior died 
He conquered death that we might live again; 
Lonely without me, mother, you are shown 
To be without G-od is to be alone.' 5 

The bright illusion past — 
To consciousness and earth again returned, 
As on that lifeless form her eyes were cast, 
The mother for her kindred spirit yearned ; 
Yet more than earthly peace to her was given, 
Of those few moments which she spent in heaven. 



96 



Our Soldiers' Graves. 




OUR SOLDIERS' GRAVES. 



(JR dead are not forgotten ! The cold earth 



}il%^ That claims of their poor bodies all it gave 

Of its own perishable substance — dust — 
Shall shed a living verdure o'er their graves. 
Young, fresh, and beautiful when spring returns: 
And woman's hand will set mementoes there. 
In tender recollections of her love, 
On All-Saints' Day; winds plaintively will chant 
Their requiems ; while setting suns shall throw 
Around the hallowed spot a peaceful smile 
Calm as theirs at parting. 

Bring flowers then, 
Seasonable, delicate, bright flowers — 
Fit emblems of our gay but short-lived hopes, 
And strew them here ; here on these new-made 

mounds ; 
Where sleep our worn-out soldiers at their posts, 
Forgetful of the battles they have fought. 
No mother's voice was near them when they died; 
No loving sister, wife, and children dear; 

97 



Leaves of Thought. 



But distantly removed from ev'ry tie. 

Except the common tie of human kind. 

They quietly surrendered to that foe 

Which must o'er come us all — their arms to earth, 

Their spirits to their God. 

Let them sleep on. 
Beneath the velvet drap'ry of gray moss. 
That hangs in dreamy sorrow o'er their beds. 
Until the final reveille. 

Mother, 
We placed no wreath above thy darling boy 
To court the statesman's homage ; he needs none 
A more enduring wreath is on his brow ; 
But we strewed roses — sweet-scented roses — 
Our chosen oiferings to one so young 
Which, for a time, gave promise of new life, 
And dying left their sweet perfume behind. 
Sister, thy brother often spoke to us 
Of thee, of all thy many kindnesses, 
That nestled in his dreams of thee at home ; 
Which ^natural expressions came and went. 
Like spirit music o'er a troubled lake, 
Prom his wrung heart to ours. 



98 



Invocation to Peace. 



And thou, fond wile, 
And helpless little ones, so sad, so soon 
Devoted to a weary orphanage : 
How much of thee made up his dying hours! 
Our kin, our country thine, our claims are one: 
Thy loss our loss, thy griefs we will share, 
Together bound by this last stroke of death. 




INVOCATION TO PEACE. 

COME, gentle Peace ! come again to our bor- 
i^SSk ders. 

Come back as thou went from us, lovely and 
true : 
Our day dreams, without thee, no longer afford us 
The realized hopes that we formerly knew. 

Come with the olive to unite and to cheer us ; 
Come with thy bright smiles, we are weary of woe; 
Our hearts and our hearthstones are lonely and 

drear, as 
The desolate waste in the paths of the foe. 

99 



Leaves of Thought. 



In thy absence our kindred, loved ones of our child- 
hood, 
Our fathers, our brothers, in whom was our trust. 
Have fallen, as autumn leaves do in the wild wood, 
To perish and molder away into dust. 

And on their damp graves, their brave comrades 

around them, 
Fatigued with their battles, have fallen asleep ; 
While morning has dawned on their slumbers and 

found them 
Still left by the side of their heroes to weep. 

Our hearts sighed for thee when the reveille sounded; 
For thee, too, we wept at the evening prayer, 
When, bent o'er the beds of the sick and the wounded, 
We knew they were dying, and thou wert not there. 

We were told thou would'st come as the summer 

passed on, 
E'en cold frosts and want should appear at our door; 
But the seasons have changed since, and winter is gone, 
Yet thou art not present to comfort the poor. 

Then we thought thou wouldst certainly come in 

the spring, 
When birds from their winter recesses did flee ; 
But these birds have returned to our gardens to sing 
Without any solacing tidings of thee. 

100 



Silent Sorrows. 



Our vision grows dim as we watch thy returning ; 
The months seem as years while we anxiously wait; 
At midnight, at noonday, at ev ning and morning. 
In vain have we sought for thee early and late. 

Come back, there is little now left to estrange us; 
Come, for our children's sake, and leave us no more; 
Thy presence and counsels are needed to change us — 
We ve foes to forgive, we ve friends to restore. 

O. God of our Fathers! whom daily we pray to — 
In whom are the hidden resources of lite — 
We ask Thee, in mercy, to open some way to 
Determine this frantic, unnatural strife. 



SILENT SORROWS 




^IfKl ^ densely-populated cities found? 

Think not that all are daily passing 'round 
From door to door, 
Craving employment, often vainly sought. 
To gain a pittance for the day's support. 

101 



Leaves of Thought. 



Nor yet alone 
In those receptacles of sick'ning scents — 
Dilapidated, cheerless tenements 

Of wood or stone ; 
Nor in almshouses reared at public charge, 
Nor lodged upon humanity at large. 

Though we may call 
Such of God's creatures poor — for poor they are. 
And objects of our sympathy and care — 

These are not all ; 
A gentler, purer sorrow earth conceals 
Which Heaven only to its few reveals. 

Who loves his race, 
And is desirous of doing good. 
May find, perhaps, in his own neighborhood — 

In ev'ry place — 
Want unobtrusive, hearts more sore distrest 
That must be sought out ere they can be blest. 

Whose hands like thine 
In other days were wont to bless the poor: 
Ere spectral poverty beset their door ; 

Whose wounds incline 
To shrink from public gaze in honest pride, 
And gild appearances they can not hide. 

102 



Boyhood Sports. 



Once happy hearts ! 
Once plenty smiled where now a fagot burns 
Now want to their unshielded bosom turns 

Its cruel darts : 
Alas, that e'er the frosts of life should come 
To chill the ti reside of such a home ! 

Go gently there: 
As a soft summer's morning sunbeam go ; 
Breathe not to an unfeeling world a woe 

It can not share : 
Go like the angels go, whose deeds of love 
Are sounded only in the courts above. 



BOYHOOD SPORTS. 

U/yty HEN we were careless schoolboys, Tom, 
*^S=§i ^ l ^ Q ev ry other one. 
Our heads, our hearts and our hands were full 

Of mischief and of fun. 
The studies of the day dismissed. 

Of little else we thought, 
Than how to make the intervals 
Contribute to our sport. 
103 



Leaves of Thought. 



We had our seasons for our games, 

Our municipal code 
To rule us in the choice of these 

As well as in the mode ; 
And when the time expired for one 

The next, in turn, began, 
As each one drifted on the means 

To carry out the plan. 

The spring and summer brought to us 

Our marbles, tops, and kites ; 
And sundry ways to take from birds 

A portion of their rights. 
But later in the autumn time, 

When nuts began to fall, 
We roamed through woods in quest of these, 

Or played the game of ball. 

In winter when the snowllakes fell 

Upon the village slopes, 
Our sleds, adorned with heroes' names. 

Were drawn up by the ropes, 
And, taking on a freight of boys 

To tow the dead weight back, 
We slid down like a train of cars 

Upon the beaten track. 

104 



Boyhood Sports. 



Ah ! those were happy days to us 

We never can recall ; 
Though dream-like shadows of them come 

To hover o'er us all. 
We re getting on in years, dear Tom — 

Our locks are turning gray — 
And needs must leave our toys behind. 

And jog along our way. 

But as one looks back on his home 

When sailing out to sea. 
So turns my heart to scenes like these. 

That still are dear to me; 
And, like when that loved land recedes. 

It gives me little joy 
To know I'm further off from them 

Than when I was a boy. 

For what are we in man's estate 

But boys of larger growth ? 
Each have their sports, their games of chance, 

And play alike at both ; 
The one, in his desire for gain, 

With smooth, delusive words, 
Prepares a net to catch grown men, 

The other catches birds. 

105 



Leaves of Thought. 



So, too, in a commercial breeze, 

The merchant flies his u kites' 1 — 
Mere paper ones, like those we flew 

At even greater hights; 
And thousands find out late, as they 

In their reverses slide, 
They have been hauling sleds up hill 

For other men to ride. 




DIPPING IN THE SPRING/' 

you remember, Tom, the time, 
When seated by the spring, 
We made a cup of plantain leaves, 

And tied to it a string; 
With which, from that pure fountain, Tom. 

As luscious draughts we drew, 
As ever Nature's noblemen 
In their proud fancy knew? 

Our cup was a frail, tiny one, 
But princes fain would sip 
106 



Dipping in the Spring" 



Of joys such as it brought to us, 

At each successive dip. 
Those crystal drops were sparkling gems 

That glistened in our eyes. 
.More precious than those costl} r stones 

That half the world surprise. 

The days were shorter then, dear Tom, 

Or gray-beard Time, forsooth, 
Keeps stricter reckoning with us now 

Than he did in our youth. 
We seldom then grew tired, Tom : 

Bat when the day was done. 
We had our pleasant dreams at night 

To cap the morning's fun. 

And no doubt you remember, Tom. 

With what impatient glee, 
I snatched the cup that you withheld 

In sportiveness from me, 
And reaching down to make a dip 

With the dissevered string, 
I lost my foothold on the bank. 

And tumbled in the spring. 

Ah, Tom, my boy, it was not long 

The laugh was on your side ; 
For toddling onward toward home, 
107 



Leaves of Thought. 



As lustily you cried, 
Through fear lest mother, in her haste, 

Would lay the blame on you ; 
And you should share of the mishap 

Its consequences too. 

But sorrows thus were trifles, Tom. 

And soon were lost in tears ; 
Mere unsubstantial morning mists. 

That vanished with our fears ; 
From which we soon emerged, dear Tom, 

Prospectively to trace 
The rainbow and promises 

That shone on mother's face. 

We scarcely knew what mother meant 

When fingering our curls, 
She kissed us both and called us then 

Her "pretty string of pearls." 
But now the clasp is broken, Tom, 

And sev'ral pearls are lost, 
We know the meaning of those words, 

But knoAV them to our cost. 

Many a poorer spring, dear Tom, 

In other fields we 've found ; 
Where silver cups of pleasure went 

Less joyfully around. 
108 



My Gentle Monitor. 



And many a ducking I have got 
In other springs since then, 

For making cups of plantain leaves, 
To dip with older men. 




MY GENTLE MONITOR. 

morning-glory seed, by chance let fall, 

Or which the playful winds had there 
directed, 
Sprang into life upon an old stone wall, 

Where had, in course of time, some earth col- 
lected, 
It seemed so like a good returning thought 

In our dark hours, when all looks lost forever, 
On those bleak ruins into being brought, 

I felt disposed to watch its weak endeavor. 

Commercially, the plant, in others' eyes, 

Was of no value — a green thing uncared for ; 

But being found there made it a surprise, 

To say the least, I was quite unprepared for. 
109 



Leaves of Thought. 



With few or no advantges for good, 

It hopeful seemed, while my own heart was fearful ; 
And, in its way, was doing what it could 

To make the ruins and the roadside cheerful. 

The sterile spot that gave the stranger birth 

Was a mere flaw that through the wall extended. 
And held about a handful of good earth, 

On which, for sustenance, the roots depended. 
Yet in this scanty bed it daily grew, 

And slowly gained in size as well as power ; 
When one bright morning, wet with spangled dew, 

I found upon its slender stem a flower. 

This new discovery was quite as great 

As was the first; I really felt delighted 
To see the vine in such a forward state ; 

And more because I thought it had been slighted. 
That is, from man it had received no care, 

And 't were as well, perhaps, he did neglect it ; 
For God, who placed the little creature there, 

Was surely far more able to protect it. 

During the time I stood there, I suppose. 

An hundred thoughts as many things presented: 

Joy, hopes and fears, then sharp reproofs arose 
Because I were so often discontented. 

110 



My Gentle Monitor. 



I felt ashamed to think that I had gained 
So little in the past with my resources; 

And had, through life, as frequently complained 
Of what were truly providential losses. 

I said if God thus graciously has smiled 

Upon a work so small as this before me, 
As an indulgent father to his child, 

He will, I'm sure, as carefully watch o'er me. 
He knows my weaknesses; He knows these must 

Sometimes prevail to cloud my sunlight hours, 
But if I place in him a heartfelt trust, 

He'll guard me as He doth the tender flowers. 

But can I, a more highly favored one, 

Thus turn toward Him, at the close of even. 
And say, with this small vine, I have well done 

All that I could for others and for heaven ? 
When we are judged alike of Him, I fear 

I shall not dare to say, in my position, 
I did as well with my own portion here 

As this poor outcast on its lonely mission. 

3Iore blest than it, I have not always tried 

To rightly use the means He kindly gave me ; 

Xor with unerring constancy relied 

Upon His faithful promises to save me. 
Ill 



Leaves of Thought. 



I've not yet learned to receive as I ought 

Affliction in the way His mercy meant it; 

Nor like this pretty morning-glory sought 

To thank Him for the dew-drops timely sent it. 



"GOD WATCHES OVER ME." 

^WhEN" night comes and my eyelids close 
^05§ ^" n swee t unconscious sleep, 
Guarding angels near me then 
Their willing watches keep. 
And in the morning when I wake, 

The angels still are there, 
To waft my humble thanks to God 
For His protective care. 

I know God watches over me 

When day begins to dawn, 
For new-born thoughts and hopes of life 

Are mine when night is gone : 
And tangled silver threads of light 

Are strown upon the floor, 
Drawn by the angel's finger through 

A crevice in my door. 
112 



God watches over Me.' 



I know God watches over me 

At sunrise, for the skies 
Are lighted then with golden smiles; 

And joyful anthems rise 
From hills and vales and running streams 

That make creation ring, 
Which notes of praise a heart like mine 

Should be the first to sing. 

I know God watches over me 

At noonday, while I strive 
Amidst the heat, the dust, the toil, 

My purposes to thrive ; 
For I am sure when I recount 

My source of happiness, 
Had He not all my plans controlled 

My portion would be less. 

I know God watches over me 

In the dull afternoons, 
When, burdened with increase of cares 

My tired spirit swoons ; 
For 'tis in waning hours like these 

I listen to His call, 
When, backward from my setting sun 

The lengthened shadows fall. 

113 



Leaves of Thought. 



I know God watches over me 

In dusky twilight shades, 
When, like the mem'ry of the past 

The distant landscape fades. 
For there I needs must grope my way 

Slowly, for want of light; 
And feel dependent as I walk 

By faith, and not by sight. 

1 know God watches over me 

Throughout the entire day; 
For He has often sought me out 

When I had lost my way. 
His chastisements, I blindly thought, 

Inflicted needless pain ; 
But now, as I look back, I see 

They were not dealt in vain. 

I know God watches over me, 

And I will trust in Him; 
Though there are moments when my hopes 

Appear so very dim. 
Since He to youth to manhood's prime, 

So many blessing gave, 
I'll trust Him in my feeble age, 

To lead me to the grave. 

114 



After the Battle. 



AFTER THE BATTLE 



fZm ;y\ X these bights and plains, a few months ago, 




b In the fervor of hate stood foe to foe, 

Mid the storm of shot and the clash of steel, 
Or their own or their country's wrongs to heal; 
The future to make, and the past to hide, 
As the surge of war should their fate decide; 
And so tierce that day was the sulphurous fight, 
E'en the brute tribes shrank from the scene with 

fright. 

Now nature as peacefully slumbers here, 

And flowers and grasses again appear; 

The birds have returned to the groves to sing, 

As they used to do in the months of spring; 

And the lab'rer goes to his daily toil 

With no present concern for the past turmoil ; 

For all is forgotten, the strife is o'er, 

And the world moves on as it did before. 

The dead to their final retreats are borne ; 
The passionate combatants homeward gone, 
And the molded shot on the green sward cast, 
Are all that is left of the dangerous past. 

115 



Leaves of Thought. 



To tell of the many that here repose, 
Like unnumbered leaves at the season's close ; 
While, carelessly over their unknown beds, 
The occasional thoughtless tourist treads. 

From the far-off sea, when the storm is o'er, 
Come murmuring waves to the beaten shore; 
There are sorrowing shells on the beach that tell 
Of the mariners lost in the ocean's swell; 
But naught, save the changeful winds that sigh, 
And the useless missiles that round us lie, 
Eeminds us of those whom their comrades left, 
Of all but the soldier's honor bereft. 

The surviving few to their homes have turned, 

In quest of the quiet for which they yearned ; 

Disheartened and weary of earth's discords, 

And the human rust on their blood-stained swords. 

The victors from fields they have dearly bought; 

The vanquished deprived of the good they sought; 

But ah, few can tell, and as few will care, 

If their friends still lived to receive them there ! 

Full many a brave young soldier that stood 
Defiant that day in this sheltered wood ; 
Who escaped unscathed from the dreadful scene, 
Has gone to a dwelling where death has been. 
Yea, many a sentinel since has found 

116 



Watching o'er the Dead. 



That while he kept guard on the picket ground, 
Others watched at home, but with hopes more dim, 
The corpse of his wife or his child for him. 

Full many a destitute sun -burnt one, 

In his worn-out garb when the fight was done, 

On his tramp from here, but the way has traced 

To an emberless hearth and home laid waste. 

And the empty plaudits that always come 

To welcome the soldier's return to home, 

May have soothed his heart but could not repair 

The loss that he felt w T hen he entered there. 




WATCHING O'ER THE DEAD. 

^AKTH'S tired laborers have lain down to sleep; 
The night's dark mantle o'er the world is 
thrown ; 

The stars above their noiseless vigils keep, 
And I am left here to my griefs alone. 
My thoughts are wandering to the unknown. 

Through shade, through mist, to devious path- 
ways led ; 

117 



Leaves of ThoiCght. 



My parched-up soul refuses now to weep, 

Lest it should, in those tears, its sorrows shed, 
As I look on the face of my loved dead. 

No stir, nor sound my weary senses greet, 

Save the small clock that ticks behind the door, 

Or when the watchman in the quiet street, 
Taps his sharp signals on its stony floor. 

His heavy footsteps partially restore 

My fevered brain, that else my soul would fright, 

And slack my pulses in their hurried beat. 

During the long, dull watches of the night, 
To lead me on to a less painful flight. 

List! the clock strikes. The old cathedral bell 
Is ringing out its record of the hour ; 

Its solemn, slow, deep-toned monitions dwell 
In midnight air, as an unearthly power 

To warn me, while I'm waiting here, that our 

Frail hold on life is that much frailer grown ; 

That, ere the time returns this hour to tell, 

My summons may be served to stand alone 
Within thy courts, O Death! Ah yes, my own. 

How slowly wane the tedious hours away 
As here, between Time and Eternity, 

I sit and watch beside the lifeless clay 

Of my lost friend, whose spirit is set free ! 
118 



Watching 'o'er the Dead. 



Whose withered remnant death has left to me 

So cold, so marred, in what was once so fair ; 

So unlike what it was but yesterday; 

Yea, so unlovely now, I can not bear 
To look upon it as 't is lying there. 

Sheer cowards we. when drawn toward the brink 
Of that dread precipice which all must pass; 

In hours like these, the stoutest heart will shrink 
With utter weakness from itself: alas ! 

As from some frightful image in a glass ; 

And fearing death, when it seems drawing njgh, 

AVill stand aghast, not trust itself to think 
It is a natural act in man to die. 
When he but lays an useless garment by. 

Yet, in the flow of health, we heedless go 

On our fierce rounds of pleasure and of pain, 

Nor stop to ask, nor even care to know 

At what dread goal we next may meet again. 

Till stript. at last, of what we thought to gain 
From vain amusements in our mad career ; 

We fall, and leave posterity to show, 

Inscribed on stone, or written in a tear, 
The sum of our acquired fortunes here. 



119 



Leaves of Thought. 



Aye, such there are in the ignoble crowd 
Who press along earth's noisy avenues, 

Learned and unlearned, both profligate and proud, 
In search of something that will them amuse ; 

But which, if gained, they soon again must lose; 
Hence, on comes death, at intervals between, 

An overshadowing yet friendly cloud, 

To wake us from our dreams, to shift the scene, 
That nobler purposes may intervene. 

Were there no checks to cause us to return 

To the realities of our abode ; 
No halls like these where the unwise would learn 

To struggle under an increasing load ; 
No stopping places on our toilsome road, 

Where failing strength could its weak powers 
recruit ; 
Ah, then, our earth-tied souls would simply yearn 

For what does merely with the present suit, 

And mankind were no better than the brute. 

Was there for us no other dwelling sphere — 

Xo undefined hereafter to explore, 
When done with this, then we had naught to fear, 

When our short exercise on earth is o'er; 
Deprived of hope, we could do nothing more 

Than feast on what does most convenient lie 

no 



The Two Friends. 



Within the grasp of our mere senses here — 

Eat, drink, and sleep, contend awhile, then die, 
As the swift seasons in their course went by. 

But this is not the whole of life we see; 

Nor are we, as brute beasts, so loosely made ; 
Though wither bound, whence come, and what we are 

Are unsolved questions without higher aid ; 
Still, these are questions we can not evade. 

In the stern hours of lawlessness and care, 
When our poor, unrequited souls would nee 

Beyond the bounds to unknown places, where 

Are things and scenes far more mysterious there. 



THE TWO FRIENDS. 



* v rJpS I strolled through the ''Garden District," 
A^fi To muse in its silent retreats, 

~***>~*& In front of an elegant mansion, 

On one of its principal streets, 
Two bright-eyed, affectionate children. 

At their innocent pastimes played ; 
Whom one might have fancied were angels 
That hither from heaven had strayed. 

mi 



Leaves of Thought. 



They were both of them choice young spirits, 

Of nearly or quite the same age ; 
Who, through with, perhaps, their third summer, 

Were out the fourth one to engage. 
Intent on a wild romp together, 

They bounded away at a glance, 
As light-footed, too, as the fairies, 

That by night on the moonbeams dance. 

One was costly attired ; his ribbons 

Went gracefully out on the breeze ; 
The other had on a mere slip, that 

Extended just down to her knees. 
Of this neither made a distinction, 

But both just as happily smiled ; 
Though the one was a rich man's darling, 

And the other a poor man's child. 

Like all other little new-comers, 

They were not acquainted with earth ; 
Its etiquette, follies, and fashions, 

Had nothing to do with their mirth. 
They were in pursuit of life's pleasures, 

Apart from its vices and pains ; 
As bees, to extract from the flower 

The sweets that its calyx contains. 

122 



The Tito Friends'. 



There carafe from the mansion before me 

With a haughty, disdainful air, 
One, either the natural mother, 

Or the nurse, of the rich man's heir; 
Whose eold and unfriendly behavior, 

And indignant flirt of the gown. 
Said plainly, she dreaded the poor one 

She drove from her gate with a frown. 

1 have not forgotten their faces, 

How loth were the young ones to part; 
For I felt an additional sorrow 

That moment had entered my heart. 
Ah! why should one needlessly sever 

The hopes of a friendship sincere? 
Earth has not a surplus of pleasure 

To give to mortality here. 

Now, out on the skirts of our city, 

In the damp of the cypress shade, 
There are two little graves — and in them 

Are two frail little bodies laid. 
O'er one are some rich decorations — 

O'er the other the grass grows wild ; 
In the one sleeps the rich man's darling — 

In the other the poor man's child. 

123 



Leaves of Thought. 



And there, undisturbed by earth's follies, 

As friends they together repose ; 
In Death's cold embrace reunited. 

That no inequality knows. 
They were not intended for mortals, 

Their hearts were too tender and pure 
At home in the playgrounds of heaven,- 

Their love shall forever endure. 




OUR FAMILY PHYSICIAN 



SHE old man's work is done. I knew him 
well, 
And often did his nauseous potions take; 
We, youngsters, used to think that he could tell 

The cause of every ailment, pain, and ache. 
When any faltered, in his gig he came, 

Graver and wiser than a judge or parson ; 
O'er nature his supremacy to claim, 

Or do his part to carry the grim farce on. 



124 



Our Family Physician. 



I dearly loved to meet him on the road, 

And exchange a smile, or pass the word of day, 
But had a dread of him at our abode, 

That subsided only when he went away. 
Professionally, he was somewhat queer ; 

Yet, when drawn aside to groups of healthy men, 
He had some qualities that made him dear 

To jovial-hearted persons present then. 

A rigid graduate of the old school, 

He would not tolerate a change of practice ; 
Nor deviate from the established rule 

Laid down in standard works, to which, the fact is 
He owed the greater part of all his skill ; 

While nostrums of all kinds he did ignore them; 
But, like a horse in an old-fashioned mill, 

He trod the beaten track that lay before him. 

On entering a house for the first time, 

He would slyly glance toward its furniture; 
A habit he contracted in his prime, 

And which small infirmity he did not cure. 
This may have been a nervousness of sight, 

Occasioned partly by the strange location ; 
A weakness of the optic nerves, that might 

Apply to more engaged in his vocation. 



125 



Leaves of Thought. 



His spectacles arranged upon his nose, 

With all due formality he took his seat, 
And gently moved the cov'ring to disclose 

The affected portion, and the patient's heat ; 
He felt the pulse, the tongue examined too ; 

Remained for a few moments very quiet, 
Then asked some questions, and, when this was 
through, 

Insisted on a thorough change of diet. 

Next, taking from the pocket of his coat, 

A sort of wallet covered with brown satin ; 
He, on a scrap of paper, stiffly wrote 

Some hi'roglyphics, mixed with mongrel Latin ; 
Intended merely to be understood, 

In common parlance, as a wise prescription, 
But which, like ordinary nostrums, would 

Lose half its virtue by a plain description. 

How often was I forced, while others slept. 

To take to be compounded these life -throttles, 
To a small shop or store a lean man kept, 

Whose windows w T ere adorned with colored bottles : 
One of those side roads to eternity, 

Seen ev'ry where except upon our prairies ; 
And patronized by the fraternity, 

Under the modern name, apothecaries. 

126 



The Orphan's Lament. 



Now that the doctor 's gone to his reward, 

We freely can forgive his wedded notions ; 
The benefits he did to earth afford, 

Will compensate for all his bitter potions. 
Nor marble monument on his behalf, 

Need any in the lonely churchyard raise him ; 
As his diploma is his epitaph, 

On which the living, not the dead, must praise 
him. 



THE ORPHAN'S LAMENT. 

fY mother, sir, is dead ; she lies 
^f Near the Atlantic shore, 

In the same grave where father's corpse 
Was laid the year before. 
I recollect the lonely spot, 

So dreary and so wild, 
But know not when they laid her there, 
For I was but a child. 

127 



Leaves of Thought. 



Upon a narrow neck of land 

That stretched toward the sea, 
I spent the first years of my life, 

Which are a blank to me ; 
Those other hearts less warm than hers, 

Instructed me to tread 
The sterile paths of honest toil, 

In which I gain my bread. 

It soundeth strange and weird to me, 

As through the world I roam, 
To hear men lisp a mother's name, 

And call a place their home; 
So long, so long ago 't is, since 

My wanderings begun, 
It seems a tangled dream to me 

That ever I had one. 

In the still hours of solitude, 

AVhen I am left alone 
To contemplate a wreck of joys 

That I may call my own ; 
These names that have such charms for some, 

Are sounds that merely start 
A sense of want and loneliness 

Within my troubled heart. 

128 



The Orphan's Lament. 



I have stood for hours on the beach, 

Beside the moaning sea, 
And watched the waves that, homeward bound, 

Were flowing thence to me ; 
There seemed a fellowship in them, 

As they came murm'ring o'er 
The wide expanse, to lay themselves 

Upon the whitened shore. 

I've often wished that I, like them, 

When tired of the strife 
With angry winds, could thus return 

To a more peaceful life ; 
Could find a home, a quiet spot, 

Upon a mother's breast, 
Where I might all my cares repose, ^ 

And be a while at rest ; 

Where I could gain the strength I need 

To bear the heavy load 
That weighs me down so frequently 

On Life's uneven road ; 
Where, at the close of clay, I might, 

Like other hearts repair, 
To share the genial warmth of love 

That is kept burning there. 

129 



Leaves of Thought. 



But no such lodge in store for me, 

The sorrows childhood gave, 
Incline my heart to make its home 

Within my mother's grave. 
Alone, along Life's busy way 

I wearily must pace, 
A human soul, with wants like thine, 

Dependent on the race. 




"CHEER UP, NEIGHBOR." 

pIIS world is not the miserable place 

That cynics tell us — though they do n't be- 
lieve it; 
Else there were not so many of our race, 

However circumstanced, so loth to leave it. 
At all events, we generally find, 

Our discontented and complaining brother, 
Who has so great a burden on his mind, 
Prefers, at least, this world to any other. 
130 



Cheer up, Neighbor. 



Enough of trouble surely comes to all, 

Or rich or poor, or high or low their station ; 
And unforeseen calamities befall 

The best disposed in ev'iy situation. 
But : tis not wise nor prudent to betray 

A lack of trust, a hopelessness in sorrow; 
The sun that hides his face from us to-day, 

May all the brighter shine on us to-morrow. 

The tender plant may by a careless tread 

Be injured, but ere long again it rises; 
The housewife may destroy the spider's thread, 

Yet it will reconstruct some new surprises; 
The bee that labors all the summer through 

So diligently for its own subsistence, 
Though plundered often, docs as oft renew 

Its earnest efforts without our assistance. 

What though disasters do sometimes attend 

Our honest and well-regulated labors, 
A gloomy countenance will never mend 

Our intercourse and dealings with our neighbors. 
The better way, in adverse states like these, 

When unavoidable, is not to mind them ; 
Work out Life's problem steady at your ease, 

And laugh at the world's changes as you find 

them. 

131 



Leaves of Thought* 



No one engaged in any enterprise, 

Whate'er its nature ever yet succeeded, 
Who looked beyond himself for the supplies 

Of strength and patience that the trial needed ; 
Or who, on finding that he looked in vain, 

Would hesitate at ev'iy silly rumor, 
And censure those who having less to gain, 

Were not exactly in the helping humor. 

Men often slip when going up a hill — 

They sometimes stumble even on a level; 
And they such mishaps, failures, want of skill, 

As their misdeeds, attribute to the devil; 
When, perhaps, if they honestly would scan 

Their acts, their hearts, their needs, and their 
resources, 
In their own mirrors they would find the man 

Who, more than all, occasioned them their losses. 

Who delves for diamonds hidden in the earth 
Expects to have some dross to cast behind him; 

But to secure those gems of real worth, 

He works away as though he meant to find 
them. 

The tourist to the Alps or Appenines, 

Full of the thoughts of what his flight may gain 

him, 

13$ 



My Singing Bird. 



Like the poor slave who digs within the mines, 
Has but his hopes and prospects to sustain him. 

When once upon the slipp'ry steeps of fame 

Tread firmly, though you fail in the endeavor; 
The modest merit of a noble name 

Is worth the toil it costs — it lasts forever. 
Wealth and power let those disposed achieve; 

But honest virtue, with its kindly graces, 
Is the best legacy that we can leave 

To those who come to fill our vacant places. 




MY SINGING BIRD. 

pretty little bird is dead, 

That did for years so sweetly sing ; 
And friends had made for him a bed 
Where flowers early come in spring; 
And there the empty, painted cage, 
Neglected, hangs against the wall, 
Eeminding me that on Life's stage 
Such changes must come to us all. 

133 



Leaves of Thought. 



Over the minstrel's tiny bed 

They planted a forget-me-not — 
A tribute that affection gave 

To simply designate the spot. . 
Yet, when the snows of winter fall, 

And cold bleak winds go soughing by, 
The bird that now is mourned by all 

Will in the earth forgotten lie. 

If he had merely flown away, 

In quest of more than here he knew, 
I do not think I should to-day 

Have felt the loss as now I do. 
Escaped from prison bars, among 

His mates he might have wandered free ; 
And there to other ears have sung 

The songs he daily sang to me. 

At times, emotions of regret, 

That my dear pet is gone, arise; 
Which time must teach me to forget, 

As coming years the want supplies; 
For other birds will doubtless come, 

From places now to me unknown. 
To occupy this cage; and some 

Will sing as sweetly as my own. 

134 



My Singing Bird. 



In a few years at most, I know, 

My released spirit shall go free, 
And leave its prison house below — 

This world which is a cage to me. 
I may be missed, too, like my bird. 

Flowers may deck my grave above ; 
Yet other voices will be heard 

Which you will all as dearly love. 

As blossoms ripe before the storm 

Wither and die and mil away. 
That the rich fruit, in its due form, 

May Heaven's providence display. 
So may we all, in Life's decline. 

When Deaths approaching storm appears. 
Our places and our deeds resign 

To those who come in after years. 



135 



Leaves of Thought. 




THE CRAZED WOMAN. 

'OW few there are who love 
And feel at heart for those who, in distress, 
Do meekly bear the trials, we confess, 
Are sent them from above ! 
How few to Providential ills resigned, 

Though never called to suffer all they may, 
As is this woman of disordered mind, 
Who, in our crowded streets, we daily find 
Wending her gloomy, solitary way. 

In her dark, dreamy state 
Of joyless life, no human heart can share. 
She has, with withered flowers decked her hair. 

Sadly appropriate ; 
And thus, lone, friendless, yet unmurmuring. 

Hither and thither she goes wandering on, 
In shapeless robes that to her loosely cling ; 
Fearless and careless too, of every thing ; 

For her best portion in this world is gone. 

Her blank, unwritten mind 
Heeds not the present, future, or the past; 
But, like a stray leaf on the roadside cast, 

136 



The Crazed Woman 



She moves among her kind 
The victim of some hidden, earthly wrong, 

Which death alone can well obliterate; 
And, disregarded by the busy throng, 
Which like the winds of autumn sweep along, 

Is left to dream but not to contemplate. 

Though vacantly awhile 
She turns, perchance, to objects passing by, 
No friendly word, or nod, or look, or sigh, 

Nor recognizing smile 
Gives she to those who at her strangely gaze; 

Or such as would relieve her if they could ; 
Not ev'n to children at their simple plays, 
Whose noisy laughs bring back our childish days, 
And make us feel our common brotherhood. 

She thus, on life's stage thrown. 
Like some poor actor who has lost his part, 
Must, unremembered, from its scenes depart, 

Or tread its boards alone ; 
^lust hence, through life, deprived of Reason's guide, 

Amidst its din, its strife, its joys and pain, 
Act out her farce with unenlightened pride, 
Or drift a bauble on its outward tide, 

In search of what on earth she ne'er may gain. 

187 



Leaves of Thought. 



Do not harshly treat her, 
Kind-hearted strangers, citizens, and friends, 
To whom God daily His richest blessings sends; 

But oh, when you meet her, 
Pity the creature in whom God has shown, 

For some wise purpose we may never learn 
How sad it were to go through life alone, 
Without companions we could call our own, 

Whose hearts to ours responsively would turn. 




SUNSET DREAMS. 

jOWAED the close of a warm summer's day, 

As I sat looking o'er Lake Pontchartrain. 

Watching the small sail vessels steer away 

To neighb'ring worlds, allured by hopes of gain : 

And noticing the setting sunbeams play 

With the coquettish waves that flirting rose. 

In imitation of the distant main — 

I gradually lapsed into a dream or doze, 

And sped on Fancy's wings to where thought only 

knows. 

138 



Sunset Dreams. 



Th' unwilling sun was slowly going down, 
And, glancing back upon the radiant scene, 
It lingered on the housetops of the town, 
The trees, and all things else where it had been, 
Imparting a rich tint of golden brown, 
And beautifully tinged the fleecy clouds, 
In which were queer wrought wonders to be seen — 
Castles in ruins, half-formed animals in crowds, 
And human -looking giants dressed in long white 
shrouds. 

And, scattered over the pale Held of blue, 

Loose-drifted snowflakes lay along the route ; 

And pencil streaks of a soft crimson hue, 

And gold and orange plumes were strewn about: 

There were volcanic-burning mountains, too, 

Wherein the fire slumbered as a live coal ; 

While round their rear parts, where the fire died out, 

The heavy sombre shades did mix, and curl, and roll, 

Giving a majesty and glory to the whole. 

How long, I know not, in those realms I spent 
The fleeting moments, wandering through thin air : 
Or, from one object to another went; 
In the vain hope a lost one's love to share; 
Some earthly tie that death from me had rent 

139 



Leaves of Thought. 



At early day-dawn or approaching eve, 

And left its shadowy image floating there, 

Where it could look down on those here whom it 

did leave 
In solitary shaded haunts to sit and grieve. 

Then, mentally, I followed in the track 
Of those frail vessels speeding from the shore ; 
Whose snowy -white sails fluttered on the tack, 
In seeming boastfulness of what they bore. 
I wondered whether they would e'er come back 
To those from whom they parted with such pride ; 
Or tossed about by adverse winds in store, 
They should sink low beneath the deep oblivious tide, 
As our hearts often do when faith has failed to 
guide. 

Far off were some in the horizon low, 

That looked like specks upon the western sky; 

As motionless, as void of life, as slow 

Of change as were the clouds that swam on high. 

Which did through ether on their journeys go; 

Still these moved on, though they seemed fixed to 

me, 
For other nearer craft went sailing by, 
And as I watched them closely I could plainly see 
At times they changed position in a slight degree. 

140 



Sunset Dreams. 



Within those transitory shells, I fear 
Too loosely on these treach'rous waters thrown, 
Were all, perhaps, on earth that makes life dear, 
To hearts that beat as warmly as my own — 
And these small waves that come rejoicing here, 
Crested with diadems of the sun's light, 
May to those waiting hearts that sit alone 
In their poor, miserable cabins, some dark night, 
Bring tales of loss and woe that will their senses 
fright. 

From these sad thoughts I gladly turned away, 

To look again upon the painted sky; 

But all had faded to a dingy gray, 

Leaving no semblance of the first surprise — 

Save an occasional electric ray, 

That flashed a mere instant like a fire-brand. 

But which was not as pleasing to my eyes 

As one bright star that, in the far off west did stand, 

Like an angel sentinel in the spirit land. 



141 



Leaves of Thought. 




THE STARS. 

'OW joyously those stars above 

Look down on us and those we love ! 
Forever sparkling with delight 
As they illuminate the night. 
From every part of Heaven's dome, 

In glittering array, they come 
On their long marches to appear 
At their appointed time of year. 

Like lustrous lamps arranged on high 

To guide the angels through the sky. 
Who come to this dark world of ours, 

To guard us in our sleeping hours ; 
Or spots that brightly glow at even, 

Footprints on the floor of heaven, 
To tell us whence the spirits fled 

Of cherished ones among our dead. 

Through yonder realms of space untold 

For countless years those orbs have rolled 

Harmonious, each in its sphere, 

Whilst all is wild disorder here; 

142 



The Stars. 



And still, as luminous, as pure, 

As permanent they will endure, 

When our poor tenements of clay 
In kindred dust are laid away. 

Those heavenly bodies do not know 

All that we suffer here below, 
Or they would not so brightly shine 

On hearts as sad as yours and mine. 
It can not be that they do share 

Our disappointments and our care, 
The sorrows and unreal mirth 

Which they behold upon this earth. 

Yet all those planets from afar. 

Innumerable as they are, 
Important witnesses will be 

To charge us with inconstancy. 
When the great family of Man 

Doth, in accordance with God's plan, 
In solemn, final judgment stand 

Collected in from ev'ry land. 



US 



Leaves of Thought. 




LILLIE LEE. 

[OMEWHEKE there is a fairy form 
That I would like to see ; 
A playful, winsome, wee young girl, 
Whose name is Lillie Lee. 
She stole my heart some months ago, 

And, should the youngster, too, 
Come tripping in your way, I fear 
She '11 do the same to you. 
Lillie Lee, Lillie Lee, 
If she comes tripping in your way, 
Will steal your heart from you. 

Like the blithesome birds in springtime 

That soar away from earth, 
Her heart is always bounding with 

Intensity of mirth ; 
But the merry strains of laughter 

That light her childish glee, 
Are charms that you must guard against 

When you meet Lillie Lee. 
Lillie Lee, Lillie Lee — 
Are charms that you must guard against 
When you meet Lillie Lee. 

m 



Lillie Lee. 



Her young thoughts are like the fire-flies 

Upon a summer's chase ; 
They flash and sparkle when they will 

In smiles upon her face ; 
And her dark brown hair in ringlets, 

But lures the eye to see 
The rosy tint upon the cheeks 

Of artless Lillie Lee. 

Lillie Lee, Lillie Lee ; 
The rosy tint upon the cheeks 
Of artless Lillie Lee. 

There are dew drops on the prairies, 

And jewels in the mine, 
There are twinkling stars above us 

That may as brightly shine; 
But there are no stars nor dew drops, 

Nor pearls beneath the sea, 
Of half the value of the eyes 

Of bonnie Lillie Lee. 

Lillie Lee, Lillie Lee ; 
So soft and precious are the eyes 
Of bonnie Lillie Lee. 



145 



Leaves of Thought. 




THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 

[HE has gone to her rest ! the sad conflict is o'er, 
And the nation's young heart is responsively 
swelling, 

For the shaft that was aimed at the hero in war 
Has severed the tenderest tie of his dwelling. 

He will hear of her death 'mid the battle's red glare, 
Where the loud cannons roar, and the musketry 

rattle ; 
But the prayer that she breathed for her country's 

welfare 
Will nerve his strong arm in the heat of the battle. 

He had sacrificed all that his country might earn 
The proud name among nations for which it con- 
tended ; 
He had earnestly hoped for his speedy return 
To the wife and the home he so bravely defended. 

But her spirit is gone to the realms of bliss, 
Where the friendships and love, which death only 

could sever, 
Of the pure and the true and the gentle of this, 
Shall again be renewed, and renewed there forever. 

146 



The Wounded at Home. 



In the sanctified shade of that rural retreat, 

With the loved ones of earth who are sleeping be- 
side her. 

Where her friends laid her wearied form down may 
she meet 

That repose which her poor stricken country denied 
her. 

And in other yet brighter and happier days. 
When our country resplendently shines in its glory. 
Our sons and our daughters will speak in her praise, 
And repeat to the sensitive stranger her story. 




THE WOUNDED AT HOME. 

[, I wish it were so. when our battles are 

fought, 
And the combatants tell of their probable gain. 
That the lists which they give were a truthful re- 
port 
Of the whole of the missing, the wounded and slain. 
Although painfully large does their estimate show, 
Of sick, mangled, and killed in this terrible war, 

147 



Leaves of Tliowght. 



It were surely relief if we only did know 
That the worst had been told when the fighting is 
o'er. 

But half is not known — there are victims at home. 

On the altars that love and affection will rear. 

When the news of a fight to their dwellings shall 
come. 

And the whisper of slaughter is breathed in the ear. 

There are wounds then received that no surgeon can 
cure. 

From keen death-dealing shafts, which we can not 
evade ; 

There are griefs that the heart must a lifetime en- 
dure, 

But no mention of these by our rulers is made. 

In the stillness of night when the stars overhead 
Light the soldier's detail in the track of the slain. 
Where the friend and the foe. the near dying and 

dead, 
As a harvest of spoils to the reapers remain. 
From those chambers of death to the soldier will 

come 
A sure glimpse of the losses we dimly discern. 
When he thinks of the ties that are severed at home. 
Of the loved ones to whom he may never return. 

148 



The Wounded at Home. 



When the mother, the gentle, affectionate wife, 
The fond sister, the father, the friends who have all 
That they love, or they live for and cherish in lite, 
In the combat, shall hear of their patriot's fall, 
Oh, believe me, their hearts, thus exposed in their 

grief. 
Though remote from the scene, will its painfullness 

share : 
For the missile that gives to the soldier relief 
Will have lodged in the breasts of a thousand else- 
where. 

There are hopes that are bright ere the battles 

commence. 
When the soldier appears in his martial array, 
That will fade into fears as we wait in suspense 
For the final, decisive result of the fray ; 
There are hearts that will ache when the struggle 

begins, 
As doubts and surmises alternate prevail, 
For the chances of death to the hero that wins 
Are as chaff to the wheat neath the stroke of the 

flail. 

There are wounded at home when the battle is won, 
And our banners are floating in triumph on high; 
When the crippled, the absent, and the disabled one 

149 



Leaves of Thought. 



Are returned to our hearths but to linger and die. 

In our pride we may boast of the nation's success, 

We may cheer for our flags that are streaming in 
air ; 

Yet our hearts will be stirred with the deepest dis- 
tress 

As we look on the forms that have lifted them there. 

There are wounded at home where the fatherless 
weep 

In their want of the bread which the world has de- 
nied, 

"When the friend who sustained them doth quietly 
sleep 

In the rude, narrow trench that his country supplied. 

To the cots of the poor comes a desolate woe, 

'Mid the ruin, the waste, the disasters of war ; 

But none heed them, none care, and few ever will 
know 

Whether poorer made since they were richer before. 

There are wounded at home when the mother's ad- 
vice 
Is unheeded and lost 'mid the glimmer of fame ; 
When her idol, profaned in the temples of vice, 
But returns from the conquest with trophies of 

shame. 

150 



Death. 

It were well for that man had the steel of the foe 
Been previously stained with his blood to the hilt, 
And he proudly died, ere the mother should know 
That the spirit she trained was thus tarnished with 
guilt. 




DEATH. 

thou dread certainty, man's portion, Death ! 
Before whom prostrate fall, of young and old, 
The fairest even of Goers creatures here, 

Tell us, animate or inanimate, 

Sin-born, of earth or hell, whence comest thou? 

Is there no limit that thou mayst not reach ; 

No prayer, no boon the wounded heart can give 

To stay the awful, unrelenting waste ? 

Upon thy altars in profusion piled, 

Are chosen victims, from earth's sev'ral realms 

Of animal and vegetable birth. 

Offensive, rank, returning to vile dust ; 

Still thou clemandest more. How long, how long 

Must weak mortality thee tribute pay? 

151 



Leaves of Thought. 



Must all of what connects us to life here 
Be thine to claim, to threaten, to destroy ; 
Or, in thy slow, correct analysis, 
To be resolved to primary simple parts? 
How long ! alas, how long ! 

In thy sure grasp, 
Untimely fallen like a broken bud, 
Lies the sweet babe of scarce a summer's growth, 
That slept unconscious on its mother's breast — 
It knows thee not — it never did a wrong; 
There, cold it lies ! The pray'rful mother, too, 
Who, in the deep devotion of her love, 
Eeleased her hold on life to save her young; 
She with her struggling infant paid the bond 
Thou dost exact of all thy subjects here ; 
Ere her new-born had learned to lisp her name; 
Or lisped, it froze upon its tiny lips 
At thy bare touch. The timid orphan girl, 
Who trembling stood beside her parent's bed 
At thy command, the dire event to know 
When she should tread the walks of life alone, 
Lies slumbering there, unknown, unnoticed. 
Here molder in thy urns the plighted pair 
Who, trusting in the ardor of their youth, 
Set out together on Life's hopeful march; 

152 



Death. 

While all around in heaps rough-strewn along, 
By thee cut down in thy mad carnival 
In myriad numbers, as an army slain. 
Are fathers, brothers, sisters, kinsmen, friends — 
All, all are thine; they sleep in thy embrace, 
Forgotten, or remembered by a name 
That soon will fade. 

Strange is t that thinking man, 
Within whose breast are written private griefs, 
Should lightly skip and whirl amid the maze 
Of empty folly in this stricken world; 
Should breathe luxuriously its foul air, 
That's tainted with the dust of his own kind, 
Without a seeming thought of what's to come; 
'Tis strange; ah, strange indeed! 

'Tis sad, 'tis hard 
To watch thee at thy slow and bloody work, 
Grinning at sorrow; but 'tis harder still 
Without one moment's warning, to be told 
Where thou hast been. I had a sister once — 
An orphan like myself, whom thou did'st make 
Dependent on the warmth of stranger hearts, 
Whose life's necessities had torn from me — 
A lovely, tender, delicate young girl; 
She, through kind messengers, made a request 

153 



Leaves of Thought. 



To see me in her sick, declining hours ; 
I went — no, I delayed, unwillingly 
By obligation of stern duty held; 

Delayed ah, why was it? till called again, 

I reached her couch too late — she lay there dead! 
Oh, God! it was too late! she lay there dead! 
Dead ! dead ! The sister I had loved so well 
Was lifeless as the ground on which I stood! 
Yet scarcely more so than my own poor heart. 
That in thy presence, Death, refused me speech. 
Gone ! forever gone from me ! 

Forever ? 
Nay, not forever. Father! I thank Thee. 
That in Christ Jesus we shall meet again, 
Where death is but the entrance into life. 



154 



The Iron Rule. 




THE IRON RULE. 

JlTY 'tis that in this world of ours 

We can not naturally act with ease; 
And wear such garments as our means allow us, 
Without offending some whom we would please. 
When we are growing poorer by degrees, 
It were, as the French say, quite apropos — 
In the weak state of our financial powers, 
To wear our plain old hats and coats, you know. 
Until we can afford to let them go. 

But not a tithe of all the human race 
Have strength of mind and heart enough to try 
To look misfortune fairly in the face ; 
Still fewer have the courage to deny 
Themselves the luxuries they can not buy 
Without a strain they sadly must endure; 
And which may in the end lead to disgrace — 
A moral death, which is far worse, I'm sure, 
Than honestly to own that they are poor. 

It is enough to make the angels smile, 
To see how mortals let their fellows drum them ; 
Some moneyed dupes will start a certain style, 
When straightway all the balance copy from them, 

155 



Leaves of Thought. 



Whether or not the novelties become them. 

Hence, not a third evince a decent taste, 

And all the rest are laughing stocks the while ; 

Mere ambulating monuments of waste, 

Got up by modern craftsmen in their haste. 

Linked as we are, by interest or by fate, 

Or something else as arbitrary quite, 

The poor in their extremes, must imitate 

Their wealthy neighbors — either wrong or right; 

For none may disregard a rich man's slight. 

Thence comes the lame extravagance we view; 

Of some who hold a tottering estate ; 

To stand in grace or keep from falling through, 

They are constrained to do as others do. 

In our worse straits the eyes of other men 

Like winter sun -rays feebly slant upon us ; 

They closely study our appearance then, 

And with the freaks of fortune own or shun us ; 

Unless, perchance, they have excuse to dun us; 

Or need us, as a workman does a tool, 

To shape their private fortunes for them, when 

They graciously permit us, as a rule, 

To act the part of a good natured fool. 

Turn where we will, from home into the street, 
These gilded fashionable forms abound; 

156 



The Iron Rule. 



At ev'ry step we lovely women meet 
With costly dresses trailing on the ground, 
Gathering up the trash that there is found ; 
Thus lending aid to that which they condemn, 
That they may with the general crowd compete, 
And hold a place among the best of them, 
Who, like themselves, can not the current stem. 

Birds fly the easier when their wings are grown 
And in full feather, it is said ; but those 
Whose plumage is the brightest are alone 
Sought after by the many, we suppose 
To love them as they love us, for our clothes ; 
Once tarnish these, from us they turn away, 
Lest on their charities we should be thrown ; 
And in the gradual progress of decay 
Be left a burden on our kindred clay. 

Wealth advertised in any man will bear 
Him smoothly over Life's tempestuous sea 
No matter what he may elect to wear, 
111 or well looking, it is sure to be 
Set down at once to eccentricity; 
Whereas, an empty purse our neighbors dread; 
And he who has no surplus cash to spare 
Will feel like one alive among the dead, 
With all his cumbrous learning in his head, 

157 



Leaves of Thought. 




DEACON WORLDLY. 

[OT far from here — less than a thousand miles — 
Lived Deacon Worldly — well, so goes the 
rumor ; 
One of those saints, whose cool, complacent smiles 

Have served to keep the world in a good humor. 
With scarce enough of earth in him to laugh 

Above the note musicians term piano ; 
His features were, like his own photograph, 
Always composed in a becoming manner. 

Though not remarkably renowned without, 

Yet, within the church, from whence he courted 
praise, 
He had the name of being quite devout, 

With those who loved his sanctimonious ways. 
Whether in this the flock were wrong or right. 

Of a truth, I know that he was always there, 
In rain or shine, at morning and at night, 

Where he made the loudest and the longest prayer. 

He was not known to sit within a pew, 

Though often there were vacant ones around him, 

But, perched in front among the faithful few, 

Beside the preachers desk one always found him. 
158 



Beacon Worldly. 



Into the church, it may be said, he brought 
More than earth's share of sanctity about him ; 

So that the simple-hearted sisters thought 

The service could not well go on without him. 

On Sundays and on holidays, he wore 

Usually a plain suit of genteel black; 
Brought out and brushed the evening before. 

And, on the next day. a8 carefully put back. 
But go>sip> (over knowing ones) did say. 

That his religion, resting in this cover. 
Was folded lip in it. and put away 

Into his arinoir when the day was over. 

One thing I know well, that throughout the week. 

He east about where gold was to be gained : 
While, on the Lord's day. he was very meek — 

By nature or by art. or both restrained. 
Toward the outside world of busy men. 

He was full as sharp and smart as any one: 
And freely mixed with unbelievers, when 

The prospect showed fair for trading to be done. 

Two spirits seemed to govern all his ways, 
Alternate, wavering 'twixt earth and heaven ; 

The one received the whole of his six days. 
The other got but one out of the seven. 

159 



Leaves of Thought. 



Thus, when the suit of black was on, he strove 

-To lure the world by prayer and praise at meeting; 
But, when the clothes were off, he briskly drove 
A trade, that drifted sometimes into cheating. 

At charitable fairs he took the lead, 

Giving directions to their means of finance ; 
And liberally, to the poor in need, 

He gave advice, instead of alms in silence. 
While ever watchful as a parent-bird, 

Of converts on the narrow road advancing, 
He pruned the young of every idle word, 

And set his face, like flint, against all dancing. 

These arduous duties, which became his pride, 

Brought him, at last, to the grave-digger's level ; 
For. nature failing, on a day he died. 

And went, as some Bay, straightway to the devil ; 
Leaving his clothes a legacy to all 

Whom they might fit. of his surviving brothers; 
And, in his exit, let his mantle fall. 

With all his honors, on some favored others. 



160 



Our Candidate. 




OUR CANDIDATE. 

,N the pine districts of a certain state, 

Where health is the result of each day's labor; 
And intellect is les- esteemed than weight, 
And strength of nerve and muscle in a neighbor ; 
There used to live a man. who. by the way, bore 
The reputation of a good physician : 
Whose practice getting rather short, they state. 

Concluded to become a politician. 

it he could thereby gain a good position. 

Debating o'er the matter with some friends, 

Who found he had the means to pay expense^. 

They nominated him. for >eltish ends, 

As •• viewer of the country roads and fences;" 

And set about at once to take the census 

Of all the voters, which the}' did at random — 

Stating their predilections, crooks and bends — 

Whom he could not, and whom he could depend on, 

And those they thought it best for him to spend on. 

Thus posted and equipped he started out 
To view the roads, the fences and their breaches ; 
Or rather, I should say, to go about 

161 



Leaves of Thought. 



Securing votes, by making public speeches. 
As heretofore have done our ablest teachers. 
He put himself to it with his best graces, 
Praising the crops and men, without a doubt, 
And kissing all the children's dirty faces — 
The women's too, in out-of-the-way places. 

He talked of "rights," of taxes, public debt, 

Of roads, and fences, and the constitution ; 

Problems of which he said the people yet 

Had never had before a fair solution, 

Nor knew the nearness of their dissolution. 

But whether he meant the body corporal, 

Or corporate, was left for them to get; 

Which I'm inclined to think they could not tell, 

As their previous thoughts were all of calomel. 

Our aspirant upon the road to fame. 
From the politician's plagues was not exempt; 
Against him charges, sprung like mushrooms, came 
Of some deeds and things of which he never dreamt; 
While even the lowest scrubs, with hair unkempt, 
Their stale jokes and taunts, and sneers at him did 

cast; 
So that his moral character became 
Like a poor moth-eaten garment of the past. 
And an unsolved riddle to himself at last. 

162 



To 



Election day, when things seemed going right, 
A drunken crowd around the polls collected; 
Disputes arose, which ended in a fight, 
In which, somehow, the man that we selected 
Became involved, and failed of being elected. 
Though we never knew just how the fight began, 
It was all finished up some time that night ; 
When, counting his gains and losses as they ran, 
Our bruis'd candidate went home a wiser man. 



TO 




do not ask me to resign, 
The slender hold I have on pleasure ; 
Moments like these are seldom mine — 
I dare not count upon the treasure. 
In hours of sadness I will sing 

The songs to which your heart would listen ; 
When sorrow to my eyes shall bring 

Such pearls as in your own do glisten. 

At present, leave me to my dreams, 

Till something more substantial wakes me; 

To rear my castles where the gleams 
Of silver moonshine overtake me. 
163 



Leaves of Thought. 



I know they will come tumbling down, 
Whenever day dawns on my folly ; 

But rather this, than with a frown, 
To tune my harp to melancholy. 

Think not because you see me smile, 

That I am always happy, dearest; 
For cares, like clouds, come all the while, 

And often when the sky is clearest. 
Think not, because I 'm cheerful now, 

That life to me no pain discloses, 
That shadows lightly touch my brow, 

As showers do the summer roses. 

The night comes when the day is gone, 

To darken all our dwelling places ; 
The gayest flowers conceal a thorn 

That lurks behind their smiling faces. 
Our sorrows, too, outlive the hours 

Of our few joys, on coming hither ; 
As thorns survive the sweetest flowers 

When left upon the ground to wither. 

It may be, I have not yet seen 

My share of trials summed together, 

Though life to me has always been 
A fickle scene of April weather. 

164 



To 



If I am happier than some 

Who permit trifles to annoy them, 

It is because, when chances come 

To gather sunshine, I enjoy them. 

The linnet and the lark ascend 

At early morn to catch its breezes; 
The lightsome butterfly does spend 

Its seasons in the way it pleases; 
Then should not our hearts filled with love 

To God, for many blessings given, 
Be just as free to soar above. 

Where they will be much nearer heaven? 

In autumn, when the leaves would fall, 

I've wandered to the forest often, 
To note the changing tints on all 

Those leaves that winds began to soften ; 
Some, in their gradual decay, 

Had sad, but beautiful bronzed faces ; 
While others on the ground would lay. 

And hunt about for hiding places. 

Again, in spring, returning there, 

I found those trees as green as ever; 

With blossoms on them, bright and fair, 
As though the frosts were gone forever; 

165 



Leaves of Thought. 



Ah, I thought then, through coming years, 

Whene'er my heart was bathed in sorrow, 

I would look upward through my tears 
To God, for brighter scenes to-morrow. 




^ 



THE MOCKING BIRD. 

I passed by the side of a cottage that stood 
In the shade of a blooming magnolia tree. 
A young mocking bird woo'd. 
In his happiest mood, 
The still evening air with his wild melody ; 
And his mimicking chorus was pleasing to me. 

It was one of our beautiful, bright sunny days : 
And, doubtless, the sunset invited his song; 

But the anthems of praise, 

That the minstrel did raise 
In his fullness of joy, were all lost on the throng 
Of his occupied hearers, who hurried along. 

Some were deeply absorbed in the prospect of gain; 
Others in ways of expending their treasure; 
While the most, it is plain, 
166 



The Mocking Bird. 



Had no ear for the strain — 
No heart to devote to his musical measure ; 
Yet the little bird sang — sang for his own pleasure. 

Then I wondered that man, in the image of Him 
Who created us both, and inspired the bird 

As he stood on that limb, 

And thus warbled his hymn, 
Could so heedlessly pass, and his soul be not stirred 
By the rapturous notes I delightfully heard. 

And I thought, as I musingly wandered away, 
It is thus that the poets of earth we find, 

Like our mocking bird, may 

Be neglected, yet they 
Will impulsively sing as their tastes are inclined, 
For their own pleasure more than for that of man- 
kind. 



167 












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